


Setting Up House

by sandy_s



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 71,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/pseuds/sandy_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rating: R for language and sexual situations<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. All belongs to Joss.<br/>Spoilers: Set after “Gone” in season 6.<br/>Summary: What if the second social worker actually paid a visit to Buffy and Dawn after the incident in “Gone,” and Dawn and Spike convinced Buffy to set up house with Spike?<br/>This story is written especially for Aimee B., who believes in me!<br/>This work is finished; I'm just slowly posting chapters as I have a chance to read through them again to check for errors and story consistency.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First, Make a Plan

“Please.” 

Dawn’s big blue eyes contain a note of desperation that I’ve come to recognize even though she’s managed to keep it from her tone of voice. I recognize it because I see it reflected in my own eyes every time I’ve looked in the mirror since Willow and the others brought me back from death. 

I glance at Spike, tucking a strand of my now short blond hair behind my ear and mentally kick myself. After all, he just goaded me in the kitchen a few days ago about the way my hair bounces or something. 

Spike’s equally blue eyes glint back at me. “So, pet, what’ll it be?”

I take a step closer to Dawn and sigh. When had I started feeling so disconnected? When had I started feeling like I didn’t have a family anymore? My mind races back in time, but I can’t pinpoint an exact moment. 

Before I realize words are coming out of my mouth, I hear myself saying, “Okay” without a trace of anger or resentment. Dawn squeals with delight, bouncing and flinging her arms around my neck for a brief instant before dancing back to her original spot. Then, I add, “But there are going to be some rules.”

Spike smirks at me. “There always are with you, Slayer.”

Planting my hands on my hips, I shoot daggers at him with my eyes. “That’s because you don’t have any boundaries unless I set them for you.”

He catches and holds my gaze, jamming his thumb in the waistband of his jeans. “Whatever you want to think to make yourself feel better.”

I ignore him and flick a finger out. “One. This does *not* mean that you and I will share a bedroom.” 

“So, I’ll be sleeping with Dawn.”

Dawn lightly punches him with her unbroken arm. “I got the bed; you got the floor, Mister.”

I roll my eyes. “Willow will be moving in with her parents for a while. She mentioned it to me last night.”

“Good,” Dawn says, cradling her cast in her left hand.

“Just until this mess is straightened out. Besides, even though her parents are pretty much oblivious to her life, I think she could use some chicken soup and home loving to help her adjust to losing Tara and staying off the magic.”

“Do you think they’ll get back together?” Even though Dawn is obviously angry at Willow for almost getting her killed and breaking her arm, she still loves the idea of Willow and Tara. . . her ideal of love and romance, and she misses Tara a lot.

I stroke her shoulder. “I’m sure they will. They just have to sort some things out. Sometimes that just takes time.”

Spike interrupts our sisterly moment, “So, that’s the only rule, huh? Think I can handle that.”

Raising my voice again, I continue, “Rule number two. No blood in the kitchen refrigerator.”

“No blood? What the hell am I going to eat?” A thoughtful expression colors his features. “Of course, if I can have hot running blood anytime I want, I won’t have to worry about. . .”

“No!” Dawn and I protest together.

Spike opens his mouth to make another comment, but before he can unleash the words, the doorbell rings.

Dawn jerks a little in surprise. “Shit! They’re here!” 

“Rule number three. No cussing in front of the social worker. I had a hard enough time getting rid of Mrs. Whats-her-name. . . you know, the last social worker that stopped by.” I glare at Dawn and Spike. “No thanks to either of you.”

“Hey, now,” Spike protests. “I tried to help; I can’t help if the bint got the wrong idea.” He raises a finger at Dawn. “And the Bit here was just exercising her right to be a bit of a grump after what happened with Red.”

“Right.” Dawn nods. “I’m prepared to do better this time. And it’s a different social worker, so we can make new impressions. I really, *really* don’t want to go live with Dad.”

“Could have fooled me,” I murmur under my breath as I shake my head and hurry to answer the door as the bell rings a second time. I turn my head to give the eager pair a final warning as I grasp the doorknob. “Be good.”

Straightening my shirt over the waistband of my skirt, I fling open the door, plastering a huge smile over my face. Although the smile feels more than a bit forced, the grin allows me to bring a happier note into my tone of voice. “Good morning!”

I try not to grimace at the social worker standing on my doorstep. Taking a deep breath, I meet his steel grey eyes with my green ones and extend my hand in greeting. The social worker’s large meaty hand nearly swallows my fingers against his palm, and I have to remind myself not to squeeze too tightly when he purposefully hangs onto me a little too long. After all, I am supposed to be “a meek little girly girl” as Willow once told me back in high school. 

“Welcome to our home, Mr., er. . .” 

“Helmunde is my name.” 

There’s no other word for him. Mr. Helmunde is huge. He’s over six foot tall and almost as wide, but he’s by no means overweight. The muscles in his arms, legs, and neck look like they might pop out of his shirtsleeves, khakis, and collar any second.

His clothes are almost too neatly pressed, and his skin is paler than Spike’s. Still, his flesh is warm, and he walked up the sunny sidewalk from his surprisingly tiny car, so he’s definitely not a vampire. His nose is narrow and pinched, and it doesn’t quite fit on the broad expanse of his face. A set of the smallest glasses I’ve ever seen perches over his hard eyes. 

He pushes his way through the door before I have a chance to invite him into the house, his large frame coming more in contact with me than I would like. 

Mr. Helmunde stops short in the small foyer by the staircase and surveys Dawn and Spike without moving to let me around him. He bends his head forward and studies his clipboard, roughly flipping a few pages. He clicks open his ballpoint pen and jots a note on the paper. 

I still can’t see what’s going on, and Mr. Helmunde’s not moving any time soon. I resist the urge to shove him forward and squeeze up next to my sister, stuffing my hands in the back pockets of my skirt. Ever the polite hostess, I ask, “So, would you like something to eat or drink? We have soda and juice and milk if you like. And I think we may have some protein bars left over from when my friend, Xander, went on the Atkins diet a few months ago. And you can come into the living room and take a load off. I’m sure you’re tired from all the running around to different houses all day.”

Continuing to click his pen open and closed, Mr. Helmunde regards me with an “are you insane, lady” look. Ignoring my offer of hospitality, he states, “First of all, I’d like you to begin by telling me who the hell this young man is, why Dawn’s arm is broken, and why Dawn is living under the care of such a young woman as yourself.” Before any reasonable amount of time has passed, he demands, “Well. Is anyone going to explain this to me?”

I step forward and try to peer at the papers on his clipboard. Talking over the sharp noise of the pen, I attempt to explain our situation, “Well, sir, I think the paper work should say that I’m Dawn’s older sister even though I look younger. I mean, I know I look young; I get carded all the time. Well, not to say that I drink a lot. . .often. In fact, I rarely do. . . drink. . . except when I’ve had a bad day or something.”

Mr. Helmunde raises his thick black eyebrows at me, and Dawn nudges me, so I finish weakly, “And our mom died last year?”

The beefy social worker “You still haven’t told me who this young man is.”

I blink. Young man? There is no young man here. 

Sighing, Spike opens his mouth, “I’m her boyfriend.”

Somehow even though that was the plan, I still feel uncomfortable with the idea. To settle the fresh butterflies in my stomach, I remind myself that Spike took care of Dawn all summer while I was gone. . . that he had kept his promise to always protect her. That’s what we were doing now.

“Yes,” I pipe up, feeling Spike’s eyes flicker to me in surprise at my acceptance of his words. “He is.”

Mr. Helmunde starts writing with even greater vigor, simultaneously asking, “Do you really think you should be dating someone so young?”

Oh, shit. These social workers are tough. When will they get with it and realize it’s the 21st century. . . that people live together and raise children all the time without being married? Doesn’t matter that Spike is over a century older than me. He certainly doesn’t act his age. . . or look it.

Spike’s voice takes on the defensive tone that he always uses when one of us verbally attacks him, “Um, I don’t really see how you can make that judgment. . .” He catches the alarm on my face and backs off. “. . . sir.”

I didn’t think Mr. Helmunde’s muscles could bulge anymore, but now he’s flexing them, and his face is turning various shades of red. “It certainly is my business. It’s against the law for someone *your* age to date a minor.”

Dawn’s half-hiding behind me now, but she interjects, “Buffy’s not a minor.”

Mr. Helmunde’s color immediately drops to pink. “Oh, you’re Dawn’s sister’s boyfriend,” he says, more to himself than anyone in the room. He rather dramatically draws a line through the lines he’s just written and keeps scribbling this new information down. “Still.” He gives Spike and me a disapproving look. “That’s a little questionable. Exposure of *that sort* might have a negative impact on impressionable minds.”

Spike flares. “Look here. Dawn’s not a little chil. . .” My hand falls on his forearm, and he stops, startled by my voluntary touch. 

Luckily, Mr. Helmunde ignores Spike’s edge and seems to notice only what he wants to notice, no matter how skewed it is. 

A beeping noise fills the air as Mr. Helmunde’s writing. Dawn and I look at each other and around the room to see what might be going off. For all we know, it could be any one of several things like the smoke alarm, my pager, or some sort of magical alarm set up by Willow or Tara to protect the house. 

Mr. Helmunde reaches for his hip without taking his eyes from his clipboard. Not even glancing at the beeper in his hand, he says, “Looks like you’ve lucked out for a few more hours. I got an emergency. I’ll be back to check the house to see if your story checks out.”

“Um, check out our story? What will you be looking for?” Dawn asks innocently, and I’m glad she’s the one who’s voiced a question. 

The social worker manages to offer my sister a small smile, albeit a patronizing one. “Well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t really be a check, now would it?” Without another word, he turns to leave. Pausing in the doorway, he throws back, “Think about it.” 

The door slams behind him. Dawn, Spike, and I stare at the closed door.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

“He’s a nit,” Spike mutters with just as much fluency as me.

I nod, a giggle in the back of my throat at the irony of how screwed we are. “Definitely. A big ole jerk person. . . with beady little bird eyes.”

“Can you imagine him and his wife in bed together?” 

Dawn and I make faces at Spike. 

“Gutter brain,” I fire at him.

“What?” Spike protests. “You gotta admit that the git was ugly.”

“A git with a funny name. Isn’t Helmundes a type of mayo?” Dawn asks with an expression of such pure sincerity that Spike and I dissolve in laughter. 

We are so screwed.


	2. Second, Stock the Shelves

“I don’t shave, Pet.” Spike pulls the shaving cream can from out of the shopping basket and plunks the metal container back on the shelf amongst the other products.

I snatch the can back and thrown it in the so-far empty cart. “I know, I know. The dead don’t need to shav. . .”

“Undead,” he corrects me for the millionth time.

“The undead don’t need to shave. But you need it. We’re trying to make it look like you’ve been living with us for a while.”

Spike crosses his arms and follows me up the aisle, pausing as I stop to peruse the razors. I’ve never bought guy razors before.

“He’s not going to buy it, you know.”

If I’m not allowed to control whether I’m alive or dead, I’m determined to control whether I get to keep my sister. “He will. That’s why we’re at the grocery store, shopping for you some stuff.”

“Yeah, and I almost died in the process of getting into this bloody place. . . in the middle of the daytime.”

Spike punctuates his complaint by throwing his ratty old blanket into the shopping cart. At least, he’s stopped burning. We don’t have time for him to be a fire hazard.

I bite my lip as I try to decide between a package of two razors and one of three. I’ve never been good at figuring out which size package of the same product is cheaper. “If you’re going to help us, you have to pick things you like.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “I don’t like razors and shaving cream.” He reaches for my hand before I drop the package of two razors in the cart. “Save your money for more important things, pet.”

I shake off his touch, pushing down the confusing feelings I have every time he’s gentle with me. As usual, I cover up the emotions, “Think what we can do with them later.”

Spike growls and moves in closer so that his breath laves over my ear, sending tingles down my spine, “What do you have in mind?”

Proud that I’m able to ignore Spike so well, I circle the cart to the next aisle and study the condoms, running my fingernail over my lower lip in thoughtful contemplation. “So many to choose from. Hmmm. Which are cheap but look like a good brand?”

Spike snorts and attempts to circle his arms around my waist. “Since when do we need contraceptives? I’m dead, remember? That means all my little swimmers are dead, too.”

“Undead, I believe is the correct term,” I say as I expertly step out of the potential embrace and flip over a condom box to read the back. “And if you and I are going to be ‘good ‘role models’ for Dawn, we have to demonstrate the practice of safe sex.”

“Demonstrate, eh? Wouldn’t that actually make us bad ‘role models’? I mean, not that I mind being thought of that way, but c’mon. Even I know that’s a little over the top. Look at what Angelus and Darla did to poor Dru when they role modeled in front of her.”

I wrinkle my nose and toss a box next to the razors I chose. “I so don’t want to know what you’re talking about. And by the way, these condoms are for display only.” At Spike’s look, I add, “In case Mr. Hel-mouth asks. . . or takes a look in the cabinets.”

“Ah. And if he doesn’t, what will you do with the extra condoms then?” Spike leans forward possessively, a trace of jealousy in his voice. . . as if I even have time to date what with the slaying and coping with being alive in general.

Dawn comes skipping around the corner then, and I elbow Spike backwards. He grunts softly, and I fasten my hands tightly around the handle of the shopping cart as he hovers near me momentarily and then backs off.

“So, Dawnie, what’d ya find?” I ask with forced brightness.

Dawn dumps an armload of food and other stuff from her hand-held basket into the large one with the shaving goods. She points to each item with her undamaged arm as she speaks. “Well, there’s cereal, more bread and meat for sandwiches, chips, popcorn, granola bars, peanut butter, a few other things, . . . and cigarettes. . . that you have to smoke outside cause well, eww.”

"How did you even get the cigarettes? You're under eighteen." I sure hope that the social worker doesn't have someone in the store spying on us. I know I'm being paranoid.

She shrugs. "Spike taught me a trick." 

I decide I don't want to know more about the trick and glare at Spike. “How much are those cigarettes?” I ask, snagging the carton from Dawn’s fingers and taking the opportunity to slide the razor package over the condom box. No need for Dawn to get any ideas she shouldn’t have yet.

“Expensive,” Spike interrupts. “We won’t be needing these.”

“But you like this kind. I remember,” Dawn protests. I wonder how she knows what cigarettes Spike prefers.

“I haven’t smoked these since. . . .” he trails off, glancing at me before staring away at nothing.

“Since before I died,” I finish for him. Before my stomach was filled with the hollowness of desire; now it’s filled with hunger for the calm and peace of death. I close my eyes and sway with the sudden overwhelming longing for eternal sleep. Neither of them can understand, and I hope they never will until it can’t be taken from them. Well, at least, that’s how I feel about my sister. Spike’ll probably end up in some hell dimension somewhere, enduring some eternal torture.

Trying to be a peacemaker for once, Dawn scoops the proverbial elephant-in- the-room from my hands and tosses it onto a nearby shelf between two bottles of Herbal Essences shampoo.

“Okay,” she says with something akin to a forced smile. “Don’t we need to go by Spike’s crypt and grab clothes and stuff now?”

“Yeah!” Spike is now enthused. “And to the butcher’s to get me some blood.”

“He can keep it behind the can of pig’s feet that Xander hid in the back of the fridge. It’s so old that even Mr. Hel-ish won’t wanna look back there.”

“Well, I dunno bout that, Nib.” Spike casts her a grin, and I marvel at the brother-sister-esque chemistry between them. Why hadn’t I noticed before today? “Not sure I’d want to look behind it either. Then, what’ll you do with a ravenous walking vampire skeleton? Might not be to good to look at around the house, and you know I’d scare away all your little school girl friends.”

“Ewww. I’ll just hide you in the closet when I invite people over. That should do it. Either that or I’ll tell them that you’re my wrinkly old grandfather who’s demented.”

Dawn shrieks and jumps back as Spike makes a fake grab for her. “Better watch it, little miss, or someone will eat you while you sleep.”

“Ha! You can’t! You have that chi. . .” Dawn dissolves in a fit of giggles as Spike tickles her ribs, and she almost stumbles into the shelves of band-aids behind her, her cast knocking several of the almost weight- less boxes to the floor.

The muscles in my face barely recognize one of my as-of-late rare genuine smiles. I clear my throat and tap my watch to get their attention. “Let’s go, you two. We’re on a timetable here. We’ll figure something out for the blood.”

The brightness drains from Spike’s face as he resumes his nonchalant slouch, and Dawn gives me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

God, am I always such a downer lately?

* * *

“This makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”

“What doesn’t, Dawnie?” I ask, shifting the cardboard box from the surprisingly dust-free floor of Spike’s crypt to my right hip.

My little sister tugs down on the edge of the box I’m holding and emits an essential repeat of her protest after Tara moved out, “We have to get rid of all the candles in the house and tons of mom’s stuff, and now Spike gets to bring in his candles?”

I shrug. “That was when Willow was living with us.”

“Yeah, two days ago.” Dawn spreads her legs and cocks up one hip, topping it with her fist.

“That was before you came up with your plan to fool the new social worker. And before Willow decided to move out for a little while.”

“And now we can’t get our stuff back,” Dawn whines.

I’m starting to realize that she’s doing an awful lot of whining lately. . . something she never used to do. I wish she’d stop.

But instead of saying anything to her, I try to placate her. “Look, we can’t. But, at least you’ll get to borrow some of Spike’s,” I say, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “Get busy. You’re supposed to be emptying Spike’s fridge.”

“I already finished.” Dawn points to another box in the shadows under Spike’s window. “There wasn’t much in it, and Spike won’t let me help him downstairs. I don’t know why; it’s not like I haven’t seen everything down there before.”

I fight to keep the flush of embarrassment from staining my cheeks. I know for a fact that the last time I was here, I left behind at least one torn negligee. Can’t have Dawn finding that. “Well, you know. It is his space.”

Dawn makes a noise of annoyance. “Not like I’ll have my own any time soon. Gonna be weird having a vampire camped out on my bedroom floor.”

Slinging his box onto the main floor, Spike walks silently up the ladder from the lower level of his crypt. “Never complained about it last summer, Bit.”

Now it’s Dawn’s turn to blush as my eyes widen. She studies the ground and tries to gain my understanding, “He was watching over me. I had a lot of nightmares after. . .”

My gaze shifts away from her wide eyes, and she shuffles her feet uncomfortably. I’m not sure what Spike’s doing. I do everything in my power to fight the tears that are threatening to surface. They know I’m in pain, but they don’t need to know how much.

To avoid the discussion that seems to keep coming up at unexpected times, I duck my head and pick up a stray pair of Spike’s jeans that’s been balled up in a corner of the crypt. Brushing off the spider webs that have accumulated on the denim, I surreptitiously glance at my sister and my lover who are hastily going opposite directions and following the change in conversation I’ve invoked.

My sister is attempting to pull her long dark hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck with her one working arm, and Spike is picking lint off of his recliner, his blond hair a light against the afternoon shadows of his crypt. He really can be an okay guy when he doesn’t open his mouth too much. Maybe he can change. Maybe he is an enigma among vampires. Maybe the chip did something to his brain chemistry. . . something for the good.

I shake my head. I can’t keep letting myself lower my guard. . . lower the walls of my heart. Gotta remember that he’s evil. He’s not like soulful Angel who slept on my floor and never touched me. Spike’s capable of anything, and if he can do what I let him do to me, who knows what all he’s filled Dawn’s head with.

“Maybe Spike better sleep in Mom’s room,” I suggest under my breath. I know both sets of ears in the room have heard me.

* * *

“This is so not going to work.”

“Sure it will. Just do this. . . and. . . move this. . .”

I hear Dawn and Spike’s words as I’m trying to empty half a can of shaving cream into the bathroom sink. I remind myself that the goal is to make it look like Spike has been living here a while. Hence, we’ve been emptying bottles of all sorts of stuff, including aftershave, ketchup, and whiskey. Now I’m working on the shaving cream. Dawn and Spike sent me out of the room. . . my bedroom. . . while they take a stab at cramming Spike’s wardrobe in next mine. They said I would just slow things down.

But damn it! It’s my closet!

Setting the shaving cream aside, I flick the extra foam from my hand and try to scratch the itch in my nose with my one clean finger. “What’s going on in there?” I shout.

“Nothing, Buffy!” Dawn shouts back, her voice slightly muffled because she’s in my closet.

“Be careful!” I return to my shaving cream task, turning on the water to try to get the mountain of foam in the sink to disappear faster. I crinkle my nose up and down because it’s still itching.

Then, I hear something crash that sounds suspiciously like something big and probably something valuable. This time, I don’t wait for an explanation.

I dash down the hall and burst into my room to view the damage.

My eyes must be huge, and I must look pissed because Spike and Dawn look like two deer caught in headlights.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

“Hanging up Spike’s clothes?” Dawn asks weakly, shrugging her shoulders.

Rubbing my nose vigorously and not caring that I now have shaving cream all over my face, I rush forward and pick up the clothes rack that’s fallen out of place, dumping my carefully hung clothes all over the floor amidst Spike’s things. . . laid out for the world to see.

Can’t have that, can I?

“Damn it! We don’t have time for this.” I pull up the broken rod, attempting to keep as many of my clothes in place as I can. Hurrying forward, I jam the pole back into the closet. Spike and Dawn just stare at me. “Come on! Get your clothes in there! And good god, some of this is dirty! Don’t you ever do laundry?”

The doorbell rings before Spike can respond.

I run toward the stairs as Spike and Dawn step up the pace of their reluctant movements. My legs fly down the stairs, and I barely pick up Dawn’s mumbles, “No way he’s gonna believe us now.”

Spike’s British grumble adds, “No way he’s gonna believe Buffy and I both sleep on that little bed.”

“Well, if you snuggle real clo. . .”

I even have my little sister talking about Spike and me. . . if she only knew the real status of our relationship, she wouldn’t be joking about it like that!

Inhaling deeply, I straighten my shoulders and fling the front door open, plastering the fake smile back on my face. I’m getting really good at the fake smile thing. For some reason, that doesn’t bother me at the moment.

“Hello, Mr. Helmunde.”

I didn’t think Mr. Helmunde could be grumpier than he was on his first visit, but he definitely is. He must not like emergencies. I mentally cross my fingers and hope that he won’t find any surprises upstairs.

He doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “Miss Summers. You need to clean up your face. What is that stuff all over it?”

Oh, no. The shaving cream!

I rush to the downstairs bathroom and take in my appearance. To my dismay, shaving cream has managed to work itself across my cheek and into my hair, which I forgot I clipped back sloppily at Spike’s crypt. I rip the clip out of the strands, wincing as I work the tangles out with my fingers. A mass of sticky spider web clings to my fingers and I let out a small cry of dismay, wiping it on the edge of the sink. I grab the hand towel from the ring and wipe down my face, smoothing out my wrinkled skirt and swiping at the dirt stains on my once white shirt.

Am I so far gone that I don’t even notice what I look like now?

When I return to the living room, Mr. Helmunde is already writing. Not a good sign. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Miss Summers, but you could at least make sure your appearance is appropriate for an in-house visit by a social worker.”

“Right,” I agree. New golden rule: when in the presence of someone who can greatly affect your life, agree with whatever they say. “Well, I apologize. We’ve been doing some cleaning.” I grimace as another crash comes from above.

Dawn’s voice shouts, “Sorry!”

I smile at Mr. Helmunde. “It’s okay, Dawn!”

Mr. Helmunde returns my smile, but it’s not out of kindness. “I think I’d like to see the upstairs first.”

“Sure!” I start leading the social worker up the stairs. To my annoyance, he follows too closely for my taste. I can almost feel his breath on my neck, and it’s not nearly as pleasant as Spike’s. He’s also somehow managed to continue writing with his clipboard pressed into my back. I shudder.

“Something wrong?” he breathes at me.

Just got to get through a few more minutes. “No, of course not!”

Dawn and Spike are grinning fools at the top of the stairs. . . like cats who ate a canary. I’m too worried about what Mr. Helmunde will do next to glare at my sister and her vampire pal.

Spike immediately senses something is amiss with the way Mr. Helmunde is acting around me, and his expression of compliance melts into one of anger. I shake my head almost imperceptibly at him. He gives me a look that says, I don’t like this, but I’ll do what you want. . . for now.

Just what I need right now. . . a possessive vampire on top of a perverted social worker.

“Stay here,” Mr. Helmunde orders.

Without permission, he stomps toward our mother’s old bedroom first.

“Um, no one stays in there anymore,” I inform him, my arm automatically rising as if I can slow him.

“So,” he states.

He flicks the light on and clumps through the room, and I tremble, feeling like he’s raping my privacy. It was one thing for Willow and Tara to occupy her room; it’s quite another for a complete stranger to walk boldly through what had been my mom’s sanctuary from all the horrors of Sunnydale.

I feel an arm around my shoulders and another slip around my waist. I blink. I’m sandwiched between my sister and my lover, my two pillars of support since coming back from death. For the first time, I have I clear realization. They, including Giles, are the only ones who let me rest in peace. Without thinking, I allow my arms to go around them.

When Mr. Helmunde returns to the hallway, our arms disengage, and I sway a bit before the world stabilizes again.

“Looks all right,” he says. He seems annoyed that he isn’t writing anything at the moment. “Ah! The bathroom.” He takes one glance, not bothering to enter the tiny room. “What’s with all the shaving cream in the sink?”

Stupid, stupid foam. I have half a mind to write the company that manufactures that particular brand of shaving cream and tell them where they can stick their extra foamy crap. Who needs all that foam?

“Well, um, we learned at school that shaving cream cleans stains off basins, so I told Buffy about it, and she was trying it out,” Dawn says quickly, standing a bit on her toes.

“With half the can,” I add.

“That’s interesting!” Mr. Helmunde actually sounds genuinely interested. “My son, Billy, said he learned the same thing the other day.” He fixes his attention on me. “It work?”

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding and say, “Well, I wasn’t quite through with it yet, but I can tell you one thing, don’t use the extra foamy brand when you try it!”

Mr. Helmunde makes such a funny noise that several seconds pass before I am aware that he’s laughing. Belatedly, Dawn, Spike, and I force a chuckle.

Abruptly, his laughter is gone. “Dawn. Show me your room.”

Dawn loops her arm around mine so that we’re connected at the elbow. Her face drains of color.


	3. Third, Draw Some Boundaries

My sister usually keeps her room neat, which is a big deal for a teenager. 

I never kept my room that neat when I was a teen. I had to give up my disorganization when I became the Slayer though. Messy bedrooms are not conducive to hiding a secret identity from one's parents. Because Mom ran an art gallery that had to be perpetually neat, she had a tendency to clean my room when I wasn't home. Wouldn't have been good for her to find wooden stakes and holy water in my underwear drawer or in the back of my closet when she hung up the clothes I used to pile on the floor. 

Usually, I tease Dawn and tell her she got Mom's neat-freak genes. 

Not today. 

Mr. Helmunde stands with his mouth agape. 

And no wonder! Dawn's normally spotless room is littered with all the candles we confiscated from Spike's crypt, and most of them are covered in dust. 

But that's not the worst thing. 

In fact, the dirt and candles are pretty minor. 

Whenever she goes shopping, Dawn likes to drag the packages up to her room and dump them on her bed. She studies each purchase with the scrutiny of an antique dealer. After she's had her "alone" time with each item, she puts them away. 

Let's just say that today she didn't get to the putting away part. 

And the giant box of condoms that I purchased for Spike and me is sitting smack upright in the middle of her bedspread. 

My stomach plunges. 

Mr. Helmunde doesn't even bother to say anything in response to what he's seeing; he just starts scribbling. 

He expected this; I know he did. 

Then, he clips his pen on the board and says, "They say that a young minor who is having sex is also probably engaging in other types of behavior that would be considered radically inappropriate for her age group. Don't mind me while I take a look through your things, young lady." 

"But I'm not having sex! I-I don't even have a boyfriend," Dawn insists. 

"Just wait a minute." Spike is defensive of his pseudo-little sister. "Leave the girl's stuff alone. She's telling the bloody truth." 

I'm too upset inside to say a word. 

"And just how long have you been in this country, *mate*? Should we be investigating you as well? And how long have you been dating the elder Miss Summers?" 

Mr Helmunde does a terrible rendition of Spike's accent. 

"Two years," Spike and I say simultaneously. 

Hey, at least, we got that part right. We just weren't very clear about which of the questions we were answering. 

Mr. Helmunde looks over the rim of his glasses at us, making sure we are all paying careful attention. "What I have seen here today, kids, could get you in a lot of trouble. I think it's in your best interest to let me do what I have to do." 

Spike snorts and shakes his head, and Dawn's face is stricken. 

The social worker takes a moment to examine the room, and then, he chooses the boxes on Dawn's desk. He talks almost to himself as he works, opening lids and sifting through Dawn's things. 

"You know teenagers these days. They don't respect adults; they think the world owes them something, and then, they whine about it if they don't get what they think they should. It's like I tell my son, if he doesn't buck up and take the hits as they come, he won't survive in the world because in the real world, things aren't handed to you. You earn them, and people will screw you over before you can say. . ." 

* * *

Screwed. 

We are so very very screwed. 

Have I said that enough yet? 

Dawn took mostly jewelry, makeup, and other shiny baubles, but she also took a few things that I can't quite fathom. 

Why does she need a toothbrush with rhinestones in the handle or half of three different pairs of earrings?

 

I can't believe Dawnie is a shoplifter, a thief. 

Well. . . maybe I do kind of get it. She's been through more hell than any kid should have to. I'm sort of surprised that she's doing as well as she is. When I was her age, I'd just become a Slayer and if I'd lost my mom, dad, and sister, I'd have gone over the edge. It's only with time and ever-increasing loss that I am able to cope without completely running away or losing myself. 

Oh, wait. I did that a time or two in recent memory. 

So, in reality, Dawn is doing better than I ever did in response to the losses she's had to endure. In some ways, I attribute her adjustment to my friends' unceasing presence in her life. And those friends include Spike. 

Spike, who is sitting by me on the sofa now, rubs my back in soothing circles, and I let him. The social worker is gone, and we have a brief respite from the invasion. Dawn is crying in her room. I sort of lost it and told her to stay there until I call for her. 

Except, I didn't say it very nicely. 

I have to talk with her. I know I do. Sometimes I think it's one of the reasons Giles left. . . so I'll be forced to talk with my sister. Aside from my absent father, she's my sole blood tie in the world now, and we haven't exactly connected since Willow and company brought me back. 

"So, you have to talk with her, pet." 

I lean into to his touch slightly but enough for him to notice the change. "Yeah." 

"I could do it for you, but I don't think that'd really help you much." 

The corner of my mouth can't help but lift a little. "You're getting good at reading my mind."

"That's cause I know you. . . we're more alike than you'd care to admit." How many times has Spike told me that now? "I know I keep saying it, but I only do because it's true." 

I stand up to rid myself of his touch and change the subject, "I can't believe they're going to put video cameras in the house! That's like totally messed up. . . an invasion of privacy!" I look into his blue eyes that are steady on me. "Do you really think what they're doing is legal?" 

Spike takes a breath and waits a heartbeat or two before speaking, "I don't know what's legal and what isn't. I'm not exactly a law-abiding citizen." 

He closes his mouth deliberately although I can see there's more he wants to say. Something I can't quite understand flickers across his features. 

Then, he speaks again, "Why don't we just go along with it for a while. . ." I open my mouth, but Spike holds up a finger. "And let Red do some investigation on the computer. Isn't that her gig?" 

I hesitate, not sure if I want to bother Willow with anything too taxing right now. "Maybe. She did seem to benefit from searching out the truth about my disappearing trick. A-and she uncovered who’s been messing with me of late." 

"Right. The distraction from her magic problem'll probably do her good," Spike encourages. "I mean, she'll probably hurry it up anyway with me in the house posing as your s.o." 

Something lurches in my gut. None of my friends know about our scheme to fool social services. Xander and Anya are lost in the world of planning their wedding, Tara is living in the dorm and avoiding Willow, and Willow is avoiding life. . . kind of like me. If things go off right, they'll never have to know this little scenario even took place. 

"Right," I say with wavering confidence. I must have been insane to agree with a scheme that Dawn and Spike cooked up. 

Spike slaps his palms against his thighs and stands. "We have to discuss how we're going to do this." 

"Wanna pretend that we have to go out of town until they take the cameras away?" I ask in half-jest. 

He strides toward the kitchen. 

"And hey, where are you going?" 

Spike's voice is faded in the next room. "Avoiding them won't work. And I'm going in the next room to get me something to eat. I'm hungry and I have to have a bite before I have to sneak around to do it." 

"Sneak? Everyone here knows what you are." Do we really? 

I follow Spike into the kitchen as he replies, "Yeah, but the sodding cameras don't know." 

I perch on the edge of a stool and watch the vampire in my kitchen. The microwave beeps and begins to hum as he chunks in a fresh pint and slams the door. When his meal is heated, he pops the machine open, pulls out the plastic bag, and takes a big swig. 

I wrinkle my nose. Still haven't gotten used to seeing that. 

He nods at my expression. "Nice, pet." He finishes his meal and hurls the blood bag into the garbage. Leaning on the countertop across from me, he grins. "So, let's discuss sleeping arrangements." 

* * * 

"So, you and Spike are going to share your room cause of the cameras?" 

Dawn sits on the edge of her bed with her hands clasped in her lap. Her long hair is a curtain across her shoulders, and her nose and eyes are puffy and red from crying. She looks so innocent that I've avoided the needed discussion in favor of an easy discussion. . . well, an *easier* discussion. 

I emulate her position on the bed. "Yep." 

"He'll be good. He was really good to me while you were gone." She ducks her head and sniffs. "He took care of me." 

Stroking her hair and studying the floor, I acknowledge her experience, "I know. And he's helping out now. I don't know how 'good' he'll be with me, but I won't let him step over my boundaries. He *is* a vampire and no Angel, at that." 

"If he does. . . step over your boundaries. . . I'll set him straight," Dawn says with a trace of pride and protectiveness that makes me look into her unwavering eyes. There's definitely a unique brand of strength there. "Vampire or no vampire." 

I smile. "Thank you." 

If only she knew how far I've let him cross my boundaries. 

"Speaking of boundaries," I say. 

Dawn shifts beneath my touch as I did with Spike a few minutes ago, and she jumps the gun on what I'm talking about. "It won't happen anymore. I promise. I'll return the stuff. I don't know why I did it. I just took one thing, and it sorta kept happening whenever I saw something I wanted. I tried to stop, but I-I couldn't." Tears begin streaming down her cheeks. 

I convey what I thought about in the living room with Spike, "I know. You've been through a lot, Dawnie. And we've all been too caught up in our own. . . stuff to see how much it's impacted you." 

Dawn dismisses my understanding, "What stuff have I had to deal with compared to all you guys? I mean, compared to Willow and Tara and mom a-and you. I haven't had anything on my shoulders. You guys all shield me. . . from stuff." 

I take her right hand in my left. "You've handled things better than I ever would have at your age. . . even as the Slayer. You've seen. . . done things that I never had to." 

She's full of genuine curiosity now. "Like what?" 

"Like Mom's death. . . my. . ." I close my eyes and shift gears. Not ready to go there yet. "You know, I wouldn't have been able to handle losing both my parents at your age. Even with all the vampires and scary monsters around me, I always had Mom and Dad. . . and a pretty cool little sis to go home to after I patrolled. . . even if Mom and Dad were always fighting." I roll my eyes heavenward and tease, "And even if my sister could win the annoying sibling award two or three years running." 

"Hey!" Now she's smiling at me through her tears. "I'm not always annoying. . . am I?" 

"Isn't it in your job description?" 

"Well, I wasn't always your sister." Her hand goes limp in mine.

I hadn't realized Dawn was still insecure about being a mystical dimensional key. Maybe we never really get over our insecurities. Have to file that one away for later thought. 

I squeeze her hand back into place against my palm. "You were a sister to me then, you are now, and you always will be." 

"What about the stuff I took?" She tilts her head toward the pile of stolen goods behind us.

"Well, you'll return most of it and pay the store owners back. I'll go with you if you want me to."

"Okay," she says in a small voice. Then, "What about the stuff from the Magic Box?" 

Hmmm. There's quite a lot of stuff from the Magic Box. "We'll wait until after the wedding. . . when Anya's all happy after her honeymoon. Then, she'll be in too good a mood to care. . . as much. How's that?" 

Dawn is doubtful. "Okay." 

The doorbell rings yet again. 

Dawn jumps. "Shit." 

"Dawnie!" But I secretly agree with her. "Remember rule number three? No cussing in front of the cameras. . . er, social workers!" 

"How long do we have to have cameras again?" 

I pause in her doorway. "Three days. Then, the tapes will be reviewed by a special panel of social workers." 

"That's forever! Will we have any privacy?" 

I try to be optimistic. "Just in the bathroom. Oh, and the front porch." 

"Great. Guess where I'll be spending all my time." 

My sentiments exactly.


	4. Fourth, Smile for the Cameras

That bloody awful, stupid, no good, rotten, evil, godforsaken vampire!

I refuse to call him by name.

No good son-of-a. . .

He's been trailing around after me all over the house this evening, asking for. . .

". . . a kiss, pet," Spike says, leaning in the doorway to my bedroom, trying to look. . . actually looking very sexy.

His arm blocks my path, and all I want to do is grab my pajamas and take a nice long. . . very long bubble bath. I think I deserve it after the day I've had.

"No!" I hiss with a smile on my face.

"But we have to show the cameras how much *in love* we are."

"In love! Pffff!" I push his arm aside. "I feel weird doing couple-y things in front of the cameras. *Most* people would."

Spike's shoulder connects with the doorframe, and he watches me with an irritating sparkle in his eye. "I'm not most people, love. I adore the camera, and the camera adores me!" He flashes his pearly whites for the tiny black camera that's been installed from the corner of my bedroom ceiling.

Have to admit that he looks nice when he smiles. Wonder why he's never done it much before.

I open the drawer to my bureau and pull out what I hope is my least sexy, most frumpy T-shirt and shorts for sleeping. I tell myself I'm doing this for those stupid social workers who will be reviewing the recordings.

Yeah, right, I'm doing it for them.

As usual, Spike calls me on my choice, "Sexy, very sexy. Then again, you'd be sexy in a potato sack."

Coming from anyone else, his comment would be a compliment. "You probably remember when the fashion was to wear potato sacks." With that said, I grab the front of his shirt and start to drag him toward the bathroom. Recalling the ever-present eye on us, I loosen my grip, fall behind him, and push him forward until we're in the bathroom and the door is shut.

Spike snorts and leans against the bathroom basin. I still can't get used to vampires casting no reflection. "If you're going to insult me, you'll have to come up with something a little better than that."

"Too tired," I admit. That's true enough.

"So, what're we going to do tonight after the lights go out? I'm assuming you're not going pat. . . I mean, you're not going out."

"Nope. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow evening." I can't possibly muster the energy for patrolling right now.

Spike fingers the edge of my wrinkled sleep shirt. "Gonna take this off for me or what?"

"Or what," I state flatly, jerking my T-shirt away from him. "Dawn's in the house. I'm not doing anything. . . like *that* while Dawn's in the house."

"Oh, ho. So, you admit we're doing something here. There's something between us." Spike likes to insert that little jewel whenever he can.

"That's *not* at all what I said."

He changes tactics, "So, anyway, I gave Dawn permission to go spend the night at Janice's. . . soooo. . . we have the house all to ourselves." He bites his lower lip in a way that's almost drives me mad. "*And* we can play rough if you like. I'd still like to know what you're planning with those razors."

"What?!" My jaw drops open before I can stop it from falling. "You let Dawn go to Janice's for the night without consulting me?"

Spike shrugs and gives me a half-smirk. I just want to smack him.

"You know, pet, we have to share the responsibility for disciplining and raising Dawn. I figured that she might need a little break from the stress of social services. You know. . . time to adjust to the notion that she'll be recorded every second of every day for the next three days."

He has a point. Not that I'll admit it. "And since when did we decide to share the responsibility?"

"Since forever!" He puts his cool palm against my forehead. "Got a fever or something? Fall and hit your head?"

My temper soars, and I bat his hand away. "Ha ha ha."

He stares at me in a stern but somehow warm and intimate manner. "Buffy, don't you wanna play nice married couple for the cameras?"

"Won't it look suspicious if Dawn leaves within the *first* hour of taping?"

"Well, I figure this will be a good chance for us to show off our ability to work together and our sensitivity to Dawn's needs as a teenager."

Gah! I get even more pissed when he starts talking all logical when I'm already mad. I know that last thought makes no sense, but at the moment, I don't want to make sense. So there. I cross my arms.

"So, no response to that, eh?" Spike asks. "Nice of you to admit when I'm right and you're. . ."

"Wrong?" I interrupt, eyes blazing.

"Nope. Stubborn."

Now I know I need some space. "What do you think they'll think if we're in the bathroom together for too long?"

He dives in closer until our lips are almost touching, and every fiber in my being begins to tingle. "That we're a normal, healthy couple."

"*This* between us. . . is anything but norm. . ." I'm cut off because Spike's lips are just too tempting, and I groan because he knows just the right place to put his tongue and just the right place to touch my thigh and just the right place to. . .

And I may just lose myself yet again.

But then. . .

Brriiiinnnggg!

I almost jump out of my skin.

With the second phone ring, I pull myself out of Spike's embrace.

"What's that?"

Spike sighs. "The bloody phone."

I tug the edge of my shirt sleeve back into place on my shoulder. "Go *away*."

Now it's his turn to be annoyed. "Can hardly do that, now can I?"

"The phone's ringing. I have to answer it," I state as if he's the village idiot.

I stomp out of the bathroom, trying not to show how much I'm fuming. I snatch up the receiver beside my bed and say as calmly as I can, "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

"Dawn! Why are you calling?" I turn to see Spike standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

Dawn doesn't respond right away. "Because Spike told me to?"

"He did?"

"Um, yeah. He made me promise to call you guys when I got to Janice's house."

"He did?" For some reason, I'm repeating myself.

"Hello? Buffy, are you broken or something? I said he did. Listen, I'm putting Janice's mom on the phone to 'confirm' my whereabouts."

"What?"

Dawn sighs, and I hear the sounds of a phone being passed off.

"Buffy?" Janice's mom has a pleasant, adult-sounding voice. Something inside me relaxes.

"Hello," I say, restraining myself from calling her Janice's mom because I don't know her name.

"This is Linda, Janice's mom. The girls are spending the night here." She pauses and when I don't say anything, she continues, "Don't worry. They have plenty of soda and a pile of movies I've rented for them."

"Sounds like they're in good hands," I manage.

"Okay, then. I'll drop Dawn off at around 10 A.M. tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds great!" Gee, at least I'm saying a few more words at a time now.

After an awkward break, Linda says, "Okay. Have a good evening. Bye!"

Right as she's about to hang up, I decide I want to appear at least halfway intelligent. "Oh! Linda!"

And this call’s a rip-roaring success so far. . .

Lucky for me, she plays along, "Yes, dear?"

"Tell Dawn to be good." Okay, so I'm a complete moron. Since I came back, I seem to have lost my ability to do a lot of things. . . one of them is the ability to converse with any semblance of sense.

Linda holds the phone away from her mouth and shouts to Dawn, "Your sister says to be good!"

So maybe I'm not the only one with conversation skill problems.

"Buffy!" Dawn complains from the background.

I grin to myself. "Thanks, Linda! Bye."

"Bye, dear."

I set the phone in the cradle and find myself drowning in the man's. . . no, vampire's eyes across from me.

In less than a second, my body is alive in every sense of the word. . . arms, legs, breasts, head, feet, hands. . . consumed with a fire that may very well char my soul. A tiny guttural growl escapes my throat, and I launch myself at him so that I'm enveloped in his cool embrace.

His hands are everywhere. . . touching all the places that are anticipating contact, and I hear myself moan in response. To get him back, I wrestle with his shirt until the bottom has escaped his jeans, and I run my warm fingers over his cool abdomen. He groans, and I smile with my lips covering his. He responds in kind by nipping lightly at my lips and then pressing them down over mine to erase the smile.

He breaks away so that air barely rushes between us. He doesn't even bother to disguise the arrogance in his voice, "So, love, wanna go somewhere private or shall we shag here for the social wankers?"

Spike really needs to learn when to open his big mouth.

I shove him backward, harder than I intend, and he slams into the doorframe. "Shut up." I push past him, deliberately hitting his arm with my shoulder. "I need to shower."

The mask of pride melts off his face, and he steps toward me. "Pet, wait. . ."

"No waiting, Spike. I'm just doing this for practical purposes."

He scoffs. "*Practical* purposes. Whatev. . ."

I whirl on him, holding an index finger up. "No, not *whatever*. *Practical purposes.*"

"Gee, and I thought you enjoyed sleeping with me."

"I don't," I lie.

"So, I don't even get brownie points for the way I dealt with Dawn?"

Ignoring the hurt in Spike's tone, I slam and lock the bathroom door and lean against the sink. I just need some time to myself. Nothing untoward is happening between Spike and me.

I think I've convinced my brain. . . now I just have to convince my. . . body.

Yeah, right, my body.

I just hope I haven't messed everything up by throwing that little temper tantrum for the cameras.

* * *

My body is warm, and my muscles are heavy from soaking away their tenseness in the bathtub. I turn the doorknob with confidence, intending to send Spike to sleep on the couch.

As soon as I open the door, a very sheepish appearing vampire greets me. "Hey," he says with such a shy smile that I soften.

"Hey."

"You have a nice bath?" He's being surprisingly meek. What's up with that?

"Yeah." Gotta keep things short, or my resolve will break.

"Love, I'm sorry."

Oh, crap. My resolve's just been smashed to smithereens. "It's okay. I-I'm on edge about the whole social worker slash camera fiasco." I study my feet. I'm a little uncomfortable being nice to Spike. I can do civil but not nice. . . not with Spike.

"If you want, I'll sleep on the couch downstairs." His head is bowed, too, when I look up at him.

Something twists in my stomach. "No."

"No?" he asks, confused.

"No. I want. . . . I mean, you can sleep with me."

"You sure?"

I nod with a surety I don't feel. "Yes."

Another genuine smile breaks over his face, and for some reason I can't fathom, I feel the tiniest twinge of guilt.

I'm just doing this for the cameras. . . yep, for the cameras.


	5. Fifth, Uncover the Truth

He's sleeping when I wake.

I know he doesn't breathe, but it never fails to amaze me that his chest doesn't rise and fall when he's gone to the world. Still, when he sleeps, his face is as smooth and placid as the rest of the human race. . . and he occasionally mumbles in the midst of dreams. . . bits and pieces which I don't often understand and am too afraid to ask him about when he wakes.

I'm too afraid because asking about something so intimate implies a closeness that I'm not ready to admit to myself. Sometimes I admit this to myself, and sometimes I don't.

There are a lot of things between us that I'm afraid to mention in the daylight hours. That would make *us* too real for me. . . and perhaps even for him.

Before I can look away, his eyes are open and peering deep into mine.

I purposefully shift my eyes away before he can see what lies there. I'm not sure I want him to have access to my emotions before I'm even aware of them myself.  
He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. His skin is warm from being wedged against my back, and to my surprise, I can't help but lean into his touch.

Maybe I'm more open to him because this is the first, and only, time we've shared my bed. And if I have my way, it'll be the last time.

"You okay, pet?" he asks, shifting his head so that his arm curls beneath his head. His eyes are smiling at me, and heat spreads over my stomach and inner thighs.

Denial girl, that's me. "What do you mean?"

I glimpse a trace of hurt in the clear blue depths of his eyes, and they strike me in a way they never have before. Blue is the color of the sky. . . water. . . purity. . . all of the things vampires aren't.

Now that I think about it, I've never known any vampire with blue eyes. . . black, deep brown, hazel, green. . . but never blue.

I'm not sure what that means.

"You cried all night," he whispers, studying my face.

I close my eyes, and memories of the previous night wash over me. My teeth find my lower lip, and I chomp down hard to blot out the images. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head.

"Don't shake your head like you're okay," he says.

"It's *nothing,*" I hiss, tasting the tang of coppery blood on the tip of my tongue.

Spike sits up, disturbing the safe cocoon of sleep to which I'm still desperately clinging. I scramble to emulate his stance, not wanting him to get the upper hand on me. . . on my emotions. My knees are inches from his thigh, and I allow myself to watch him as he stares forward with his forearms perched atop his knees.

After a few seconds of contemplation, something unusual for Spike, he says, "No, pet. This time that. . . well, sod it, I'm really not going to let you get away with avoiding this."

He punctuates his claim with direct eye contact.

I lift my chin in defiance and stare back.

He continues, "You think I haven't seen others go through what you're going through? It's not exactly the same. . . it never is. . . but it's similar enough."

I glare at him, but inside I'm trembling like a mouse. . . hiding in a hole and being dug out by a very hungry cat. "Oh, yeah? When have you come across someone like me?"

His stern expression softens, and he chuckles, almost without humor, "No one's ever been. . . ever affected me exactly like you."

Although my heart is thumping and my mind is whirling with thoughts about what he'll say next, I refuse to let him see. Instead, I roll my eyes and bring my arms across my chest. "Bet that's what you tell all the girls. Really winning me over here, Spike."

"I'm not trying to win you over, love. I'm trying to talk with you about what's happening here. . . you know what I'm talking about." That said, he lifts his eyebrows at me, and when I catch a glimpse of his sincerity, I fall into my regular routine.

I run.

"Wait!" He tries to grab the edge of my pajamas but fails, and I keep going.

I'm an expert at running. . . but usually, I'm running after the vampires with a pointy stake in my hand. . . not the other way around.

My bare feet thunder across the hardwood floors and down the stairs, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door where I collapse just outside the back door with my back to the house. The normally bright morning sun is blotted out by a cluster of grey clouds that are heavy with potential rain. . . kind of like me.

I manage to hold back tears.

And I opt for heavy breathing. . . not sobbing. I make a short little jog down the stairs, and I'm out of breath. What kind of Slayer does that make me? It makes me a Slayer who's out of step with her life. . . it makes me vulnerable.

Pesky thing. . . vulnerability.

When at last I begin intentionally inhaling one second and exhaling the next, I hear the still ajar door squeak open. "Buffy?"

I ignore him, raising my knees to my chest and tucking my chin in the resulting valley.

I sense him poking his head into the daylight, but I wait in several seconds of angry silence before I say, "Don't do that, Spike. It's morning."

"I don't see sunlight," he replies with indifference.

I offer an olive branch with my tone of voice, "Still, any second now, Mr. Sunshine could pop a shiny beam from out behind one of those clouds, and poof! No more snarky Spikey."

Spike snorts in vague amusement and slips out to sit beside me on the doorstep. "Don't know if it would be exactly 'poof.'"

Although he's not touching me, the physical presence of his shoulder next to mine is a comfort, so I continue with teasing, "Don't like to think of yourself as a mere vampire, huh?"

"I'm not a 'mere vampire."

I shrug, throwing off his claim of distinctiveness. Again, denial is easier than admitting what I'm beginning to believe about what exactly Spike is. In a psychology class, I once read that individuals are the sum total of what others believe them to be. . . that they are defined by spoken and unspoken interactions with others. If so, does that mean that Spike is defined by how other people talk about him? Am I?

(Who says Slayers are all brawn with no brain? I earned my high SAT scores, thank you very much.)

Spike is quiet again, and I wonder if I've hurt him. I decide to wait for him to speak. When at last he does, I listen. I have a sudden need to know if what I'm saying to others and myself about Spike is accurate.

"I understand why you run," he says. When I lift my head in alarm, he adds, "At least, I partly understand. You're going through a lot."

I start to deny, but then, I whisper, "What have you seen before?"

He cocks his head to the side with genuine curiosity, "What do you mean?"

I struggle to say what I mean without actually saying anything about myself, "Before. . . when you said. . ."

"What did I say and when did I say it?"

I'm doing good to answer one of those. "This morning." He waits for more. "That's when you were talking about it."

"It?"

I sigh heavily. Do I have to spell everything out? Isn't he supposed to be so in tune with me that he can read my mind? "You know. . . the 'similar' things you've seen in other people."

Recognition lights Spike's eyes. "Oh. . . that."

"When did you see it before?"

Spike leans his head back against the doorframe. "Long time ago before I even came here."

"Here?"

"America, California, Sunnydale."

"Oh." I'm contradictorily impatient. Who says I'm predictable? "Who, what, where? Details please."

"Oh, so now you want to talk."

My heart sings. "Maybe. I'm confusing?"

"Bloody hell, woman. . . you're more than confusing."

"What does that make me?"

He regards me without lifting his head from the doorframe. "I'm not sure."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Now *you're* being all avoid-y," I observe.

"Easier for me to talk inside with the cameras rolling." Spike notes my expression. "Contradictory, I know. But I think that maybe you won't be able to completely ignore me or run away if I have you where you're under scrutiny by outsiders. . . outsiders who are evaluating you. . . or that you *perceive* are evaluating you."

Several choice phrases rush through my mind before I choose, "I feel better talking out here." I pause and then ask, "were you with Angel when you saw that 'similar' stuff?"

Spike has never been good with the poker face. He wears his emotion on his sleeve. . . either that or his emotions rule him. . . I'm not sure which saying fits him best. "Maybe."

"You can tell me."

Now he closes his eyes to me. "Not sure I want to bring your 'soul mate' into this thing we got going here between us, pet."

"I *want* to know." I find myself in possession of a desperate wish for understanding. . . understanding from Spike.

Some of the tension melts out of his shoulders, and I realize that he's trying to find the best place to start his story. "Dru wasn't the only vampire that Angelus created."

He pauses here, letting his words penetrate my mind. His obvious uncertainty about telling me calms me.

Spike keeps speaking, "And he continued to like tormenting the ones he brought over. Before he ever actually laid a hand on them, he lined up horror upon horror for them to witness. . . things that would make even your Slayer blood go anemic."

"Like what?" Do I really want to know the answer to that?

"You don't want to know."

That was easy. "Okay." My hand finds its way to touch the top of his thigh.

"So, Dru and I were recruited to perform some of his more complex schemes. . . schemes that involved more than one vamp. I witnessed firsthand what such events had on his victims. Never liked it much. To me, it took the fun out. . . drinking blood is no fun if you have to work so many weeks for just a sip. Me? I preferred taking on a tavern full of people, supping from all of them and then, setting the bloody place on fire. Now *that's* f. . . "

I hold a hand up and wave it in front of his face. "Way, way too much information."

I don't need to be reminded that my boyfr. . . the guy I'm sleeping with is a dangerous killer without that nifty little government chip in his noggin.

"The point is, that I saw what those people went through. I saw how it impacted them. Quite often, Dru and I were sent to watch these people for hours during the night. . . and during the day."

"The day?" How the heck had they done that?

Spike stares into the vastness of the backyard. "We'd break into their homes or the hotels or wherever they were staying. And we'd just watch."

"For hours?"

"Yep."

"Can't picture you doing that. You don't have the patience."

Angling his head slightly toward me, he arches an eyebrow. "Pot, kettle, black."

"Whatever." I can't suppress my smile.

"And I *do* have patience. . . when the situation is important enough to me."

"When the situation is a challenge. When you can't get what you want when you want it," I correct. I recall him standing outside my bedroom window, leaning against a tree, and staring.

A bit of hurt flashes across his features. "All a matter of semantics, pet."

Guilt hits me. Here I am falling into the familiar routine of labeling Spike. I'm not exactly sure why I'm starting to care about that so much. "Right. You're right."

This time both eyebrows raise. "First time I've heard you admit that."

I ignore him. "So, what'd you see?"

His voice softens, "Lots of things, pet. I saw them have nightmares all night and sometimes into the daylight hours. I saw them cry themselves to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night crying, and wake up in the morning crying. I saw them hallucinate and re-experience their experiences. I saw grown men. . . men others thought of as impenetrable huddled in the corners sobbing and hiding their heads. And nothing and no one was even there."

I feel completely naked. . . as if my armor has been stripped away. My stomach hurts, and I bow my head to break the connection I have with him. Can't afford to have him see too much. . . not that my hiding has ever stopped him.

He lets me hide. "And I've seen them do all sorts of things to compensate and try to appear as if everything was unchanged. Sometimes they'd throw themselves into their work, sometimes they'd withdraw from their friends, and they'd always throw on a happy mask for the people in their lives. I've never seen more religious conversions and spiritual renewals than among those Angelus chose to have tortured."

A mantra comes to life in my head. . . a mantra that I've had to repeat many times, especially over that summer I spent alone in L.A. after I killed Angel. Angelus is not Angel. Angel is not Angelus. Got to remind myself of that, or I find myself slipping into a vicious cycle of guilt and anger that leads me to tear myself down.

Spike tucks his hand against my inner thigh and brings me back to my reality and another source of guilt. . . guilt for what I'm doing with him. . . and he doesn't even have a soul. "What do you think of what I'm telling you?"

I bite my lip. "What does what Angel did have to do with me?"

"What do you think?" Spike asks with more gentleness than I can stand.

"Buffy!" Dawn's voice bounces from across the yard.

My head shoots up, I shake Spike's hand off my leg, and I blink away the tears that have formed in my eyes. I was so caught up in my interactions with Spike that I didn't even hear the car that is now pulling out of our driveway.

Dawn doesn't wait for us to respond. "Spike! What are you doing outside? It's daytime!"

"Clouds." Spike's response is short, which doesn't allow me to determine if he's angry at me for rejecting his touch in front of Dawn.

"Oh. Makes sense." Dawn slings her overnight bag onto the porch next to my foot and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "What's for breakfast, guys? I'm starved! It's already ten, and I haven't eaten yet!" She taps the front of her watch.

I can't help but smile at Dawn's enthusiasm.

And I can't help but feel relieved that I've avoided Spike's confrontation once again.

So why do I feel so guilty about it, and why do I feel like Spike might be getting too close? Does living with him mean that I can't hide anything from him anymore?

More importantly, do I want to hide things from Spike?

I don't think I have an answer for that one.


	6. Sixth, Cook, Clean, and Eat Together

A happy family is one that cooks together.

Isn't there a saying like that somewhere?

Dawn and I used to curl up with Mom on the couch and watch re-runs of Julia Child. That's the closest we came to actually making a meal together. Sometimes we paired up to cook breakfast or bake cookies, but never did all of three of us cook together. Major fights would have ensued, and we genuinely loved one another.

On the other hand, I don't love Spike even if he does understand me. . . gotta keep reminding myself of that one.

He's taken over in the kitchen. . . as if he owns the place. Boxes and bags are open everywhere, and ingredients cover every available surface. By the time he got organized, we decided lunch would be better than breakfast.

"Buffy! Pay attention to the bloody pot!" Spike's voice shakes me out of my reverie.

Crap! The liquid cheese mixture in the saucepan in front of me is boiling over, making sizzling noises on the stove. Grabbing the oven mitt from the counter, I grasp the pot handle with both hands and move the spewing mess to a non-flamey part of the stove.

Dawn has rushed over from her chopping position at the kitchen island, and the smell of onion follows her as she hovers over my shoulder. "Buffy, you made a mess."

I scoot back from the stove a little, attempting to reach a semi-wet rag on the side of the sink. "Gee, Sherlock, what makes you say that?"

Rubbing her nose and sniffling, Dawn shrugs, waving the butcher knife she's been using around to underscore her point. "The mess. . . and the stench of burning cheese."

"Very observant." I swat at her with the rag and attempt to wipe up the still bubbling fluid without burning myself. "Aren't you supposed to be chopping onion or something with that thing?" I push the knife down, so the point's not likely to puncture my skin.

Dawn gives me a watery smile. "Yep. I do whatever Spike tells me." She gives Spike a mock bow and sneezes as she heads back to the work of awkwardly chopping food with a broken arm.

"What is this stuff anyway?" I ask Spike who has his nose buried in a dusty cookbook that he found at the top of a kitchen cabinet.

Spike doesn't even bother to look up.

So I study him.

Somewhere, he's found a little pair of glasses that he's propped up on his nose to help him read the tiny print in the thick tome. He turns a page and runs a hand through his hair. Damn. He looks. . . cute. Who knew that a man with platinum-colored hair dressed in black could look cute wearing glasses.

"You'll see, pet," he says in an offhanded fashion.

"Wish I knew what we were making." I sidle up to him and try to catch a glimpse of the text on the page.

Spike's head jerks up, and I almost giggle because for a moment with those glasses, he reminds me of Giles. "Pay attention to your pot!" he growls.

I glance at the lackluster little saucepan on the stove. "It's not going anywhere."

He buries his head in the book again. "Then, you can put stuff in the measuring cups for me."

I roll my eyes; he's taking this domestic diva thing a bit far for me. "Aye, aye." Picking up a giant measuring cup, I glance at the plethora of supplies and don't even know where to begin. I turn back to face him; he's still lost in thought with one finger running over lines in the book. Part of me wonders if he's treating me this way because we just shared something excruciatingly intimate on the porch. Or maybe I'm just projecting my own discomfort onto him.

Something's definitely different between us, and I find myself in desperate need to cover that difference up. After all, we're posing for the cameras. Why not have a little fun with the process?

So, suppressing an inane giggle that's sprung up in my throat, I immerse my fingers deep into the bag of flour and sling a handful at the back of Spike's head.

Upon impact, he jumps, spreading the shower of flour through the air. "What the f-. . ."

In that second where time stands still, he glares at me with fire in his eyes, the glasses askew on his nose. I'm hyper aware that Dawn has stopped chopping vegetables and is staring at both of us with undisguised shock.

I've never wanted a man. . . vampire. . . so much in my life.

And he responds exactly as I want him to. . . by flinging the glasses aside, lunging at me, and seizing a handful of flour from the nearby bag. For another second, we're breathing heavily in each other's faces even though Spike doesn’t need to breathe, and then. . .

Spike whirls and hurls the flour at the still dumbfounded Dawn who raises her cast in a futile attempt at shielding herself.

There's so much white powder in the air that I can't see anything, and I know Dawnie can't either. . . much less the cameras.

So I seize the moment and kiss Spike hard on the mouth, pressing my body up against his so tightly that I can feel my heart pounding against his silent chest. The fire between us sparks and sizzles, boiling over all my senses like the cheese in that stupid saucepan.

The moment lasts a mere heartbeat, and I barely catch the second shockwave in Spike's eyes before I'm caught up in the food fight again.

Dawn has found her bearings, and I join her in pelting chopped food and other ingredients at the vampire in our house. He fights back with the same grace and effort that he uses in demon fighting, creating an earnestness to the kitchen battle that strengthens our resolve against him.

The food skirmish ends as dramatically as it began. . . with a giggle. This time, I can't stop the sound from pushing past my lips and hanging in mid-air.

I can't help myself.

Spike and Dawn look too funny covered in a conglomerate of food stuffs, and I'm certain that I look no better.

My laugh elicits mirth from Dawn who laughs so hard at Spike and me that she bends over, clutching her ribs. . . and slipping on the now slick floor. She lands on her butt but keeps smiling with tears streaming down her face.

Suddenly, all this playfulness feels good. I can't remember when I last felt such joy at the thought of living. I know I don't want to die, but feel happiness again? That's a foreign concept of late.

"What are we making again?" I ask, brushing greasy strands of hair from my eyes with both hands and grinning at the pair before me.

"Can't recall, love. And can't read now either." He nods in the direction of the cookbook's goop-filled pages.

Dawn looks up at us with round childlike eyes, brushing food off of her cast. "Can we order a pizza?"

"That might be a good idea. Then, we should clean up in here and maybe shower," I agree.

"Maybe shower? Sounds like a must to me," Spike comments.

"Good plan." I wipe my hands on a halfway clean towel and head for the phone. "What would you guys like on your pizza?"

Dawn clamors to her feet with a soft grunt. "Pepperoni!"

"Can we order one with extra rare steak? I know a couple of pizza joints in town that specialize in. . . you know. . . " Dawn and I frown at Spike. ". . . with a little extra bl. . ."

Dawn and I respond with equal disdain and awareness of the cameras, "No!"

I knew we couldn't cook a meal together.

Does that mean we're not happy?

I believe that the jury is still out on that one, and that's hard for me to admit.

Picking up the receiver, I dial the familiar number of the pizza delivery place. Knowing the number by heart has to be a bad sign.

* * *

Feeling quite fresh from the hot shower I just took, I skip downstairs and hear a distinct grumbling of the masculine variety coming from the direction of the kitchen.

Somehow, I can't resist.

I lean on the doorframe and cross my arms, just watching. Spike is still covered in congealing goop and is struggling with rinsing off the mop in the cracked bucket Dawn must have produced from under the sink. His hair is a disheveled mess, and the scowl covering his face is classic Spike. He curses as the mop handle catches on something. Extricating the handle from its unseen trap, he raises the water-laden mop and plops the wet tendrils onto the linoleum.

For some reason, the plop makes me giggle.

His head shoots up at the sound. "What are you staring at?"

"You. Mopping." He gives me his most ferocious glare, and his eyes glow yellow-gold. "William the Bloody a-swabbing the deck," I add in my best fake pirate voice.

"Being the resident maid is not what I signed up for." Spike props the mop against the cabinet. "I'm not doing it anymore."

"Awww. Didn't you read the fine print in your contract? It was there. . . the whole mopping and cleaning and dusting bit. . . in detail."

Spike smirks at me, sucking in his cheeks a little as he saunters over to me in the manner that makes me want him. "Oh really. And I thought you wanted me here for other reasons."

I can't help myself, "Practical reasons."

He snorts. "Right."

"Go shower," I say, feeling amicable. "Dawn's in her room drying her hair. I'll finish up in here."

To my surprise, he kisses the tip of my nose, ignoring my verbal attempt to push him back again. "Will do."

In two words, he's somehow manages to convey that things between us are not resolved. . . are most definitely unfinished.

And with one small sign of affection, he conveys that the chasm we crossed earlier has returned.

Sighing, I cross the room on tiptoe, grip the broom handle, and tackle the mess.

* * *

After Dawn prances downstairs with her hair still damp, I put her to work with me, and we finish cleaning the kitchen in no time. Then, Dawn pops a movie into the DVD player, and we snuggle up on the couch like two kittens, smelling fresh and feeling warm from our baths.

Spike takes an inordinate amount of time in the shower, and I'm beginning to wonder if he went down the drain when he appears on the stairs. Engrossed in the movie, Dawn ignores him, but I can't help but stare. I've never seen Spike with uncombed damp hair, and I've certainly never seen him descending my stairs with such comfort. . . as if he belongs here. . . in my house. He locks eyes with me only briefly, and I feel the almost icy distance between us.

I'm not certain I like the hollow feeling that accompanies that distance.

As soon as he reaches the bottom of the staircase, Dawn disentangles her legs from mine and picks up her hair brush from the coffee table. "'Bout time."

Spike grins at her with such genuineness that my heart sinks. How can I possibly feel jealous of my own sister when I'm the one sleeping with him? And yet, for some unfathomable reason, I do.

Spike accepts the brush from Dawn's extended arm and settles on the couch. . . careful to stay apart from me. As I stare, Dawn kneels at his feet, places one hand in her lap, cradles her broken arm against her stomach, and continues watching the movie. Spike pulls her long brown hair from in front of her shoulders and arranges the strands artfully along her back. With the ease of having brushed hair in the past, he watches the movie and works the instrument through Dawn's tangles, careful not to pull too hard on her scalp.

He's so tender with her that my heart hurts, and I wonder just how many times he's shared such an intimate moment with my sister. . . something I've been reluctant to share with him since we started having sex.

I have to disturb the comfortable image of my sister being parented by my lover. "How long have you been doing that, Spike?"

As if broken out of a trance, Spike glances at me, stopping brush in mid-stroke. He shrugs and returns to his motions. "Always knew how, I guess. Brushed my mum's hair. . . and Dru's."

Dawn twists her head and smiles at me, "He started doing it for me when I couldn't sleep at night. . . after you. . . and I. . ."

"Was having nightmares," Spike finishes, pushing her head back in place and resuming brushing. "We'd talk about you and. . ."

"It would be peaceful." Dawn closes her eyes in memory, and I feel strangely detached as if I'm not supposed to be present.

"Oh," my voice is smaller than I intend it to be.

Dawn peers at me from the corner of her eye. "Want a turn?"

"That's okay. You guys go ahead. I'm watching the movie." I try to focus on what's unfolding on the screen. Like that's going to work.

Dawn stands, grabs my hand with her good one, and tugs me up. "Your turn." She pushes me toward Spike, and Spike smiles at me almost sheepishly. I lower my eyes but settle myself between his knees with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

I'm not sure I like where this is going. Surely, Dawn will suspect something is going on between Spike and me. I determine to grit my teeth and not react to his touch.

Boy, that plan is a complete and utter failure.

As soon as his fingertips graze my neck, my body tingles with a fire that I can't deny, and I close my eyes and lean closer to him. The presence of his legs around my shoulders enshrouds me like a cocoon, and. . .

I feel safe. . . safer than I've felt since my return to life.

Goosebumps rise on my arms as he tucks the shorter tufts of hair on the side of my head behind my ears, and I can feel his vampire strength behind each stroke of the brush against my scalp.

Just as I'm about to lose myself completely in the brushing, the doorbell rings.

"Pizza's here!" Dawn shouts, and my eyes fly open to witness her jumping up. "I'll get it. You guys keep doing what you're doing."

I don't even have the energy to fight her. "The money's. . ."

"In the kitchen. I know," Dawn interrupts. She scampers into the other room with the energy of a puppy.

Spike and I are left alone. He immediately sets the brush aside.

"What are you doing?" I protest, torn between wanting him to continue and knowing that it's all a show for the cameras.

He leans back against the couch and away from me. "Stopping."

"How come?"

I hear the lie in his voice, "Food's here."

I turn around completely to face him. "Spike. . ."

"What, pet?"

The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, "I want you to touch me." I need you to touch me.

I can't stand that he's pulling back from me. . . and I have no idea why. Or maybe I do and admitting it to myself is too scary.

"Do you now?" he asks with such deep sincerity that my insides melt.

I decide to show him, and I touch his thighs with my hands, running them all the way back to his hips. "Yes. Please."

He says nothing and doesn't move to make contact, but the depths of his eyes say everything. He tries to hide his feelings, but I see them clear as day. He understands me. . . perhaps more than anyone in this world right now.

How can a soulless demon have so much empathy? If a vampire can show empathy without a soul, what does that mean about the rest of his feelings? Can he actually love me like he claims?

Or does the living arrangement make me project my feelings onto him. . . similar to the way we project feelings onto pets? Do pets have feelings?

And then, my off topic thoughts are disrupted.

"Buffy! What are you doing?"

My heart skips a beat as my head jerks up.

Willow stands over us holding a pizza box. Dawn is hopping up and down, doing a silent little antsy dance and making apologetic faces.

And Spike and I are. . . .

Oh, crap.


	7. Seventh, Make Time to Go Out with the One You...Aren't Sure You Like

So, I try to play off the whole kneeling between Spike's legs and rubbing his thighs in front of the whole world thing. . . well, world of Willow anyway.

"Didn't know you were delivering pizzas now, Will."

Okay, that came out harsher than I intended.

"M'not." She tucks a scarlet strand behind one ear with a shaky hand. "Just saw the pizza guy driving up, paid him, and. . . Viola, pizza!"

Trying to act as casual as one possibly can when caught in an awkward position, I slowly bring my hands to the tops of my thighs and rise, ever cognizant of three sets of eyes watching my every move. My right leg has fallen asleep with a thousand little rubbery tingles, and I stumble a bit before I regain my footing. . . with Spike lurching forward from his slouch and grabbing my arm to steady me.

This is going from worse to well. . . worse.

"A-and I swear I didn't cast a sp. . . ," Willow protests.

Before she can finish the sentence, I seize her arm, taking the pizza box and practically flinging the pie on the coffee table.

I drag her onto the front porch, slam the front door, and release her. We both kind of sway as we catch our breath.

"I didn't do a spell," Willow says in a small, hurt voice. "No need to throw me out."

Color me a-bright-rainbow-full-of-colors confused.

"What are you talking about?"

My best friend is even more flustered now and stutters like Tara used to when she was shy around the rest of us. "Y-you know. . . with you a-and Spike and the t-touching. I-I didn't do that. . . this time. I've been staying off the magic; I *swear.*" She raises her right hand as if taking oath.

I blink, and my eyes flicker sideways to Dawn who has opened the front door and joined us with her good arm crossed over her broken one. Spike has managed to follow and is leaning against the door frame with a smirk on his face. Smug bastard. He's enjoying every second of this.

Quickly running over all the options in my mind, I decide to tell the truth. That's simplest, right? "There's no spell."

"But then. . ." Willow stare shifts from me to Spike and back to me again. "Huh?"

Dawn seizes the moment to dance around Willow and interrupt her field of vision. Thank goodness. "So, Spike moved in with us."

"What?" Willow sounds tired, and I notice the circles under her eyes. She's been getting almost as much sleep as me. With almost exaggerated slowness, she eases onto the floor of the porch, using one of the posts as support. "I-I don't understand."

As usual, I start my babble fest. "Well, there was that thing with the social worker. . . can't remember her name, and she found some of your magic weed, and then, she saw Spike and his blanket and caught me lying about you living here. And then, this other social worker came, and he's a real jerk. Anyway, now there are cameras in the house, and Spike and I are pretending to be Dawn's parental figures, and. . ."

Willow squints at me. "But. . ." She points a finger at Spike. "But he's evil."

Raising both eyebrows at me, Spike straightens up like a dog whose name has been called. He nods at Willow. "That's me."

Dawn rolls her eyes. Apparently, her patience for the whole situation is gone, and somehow I can't blame her. "You guys sort this out. I'm hungry." With that said, she breezes past Spike and storms into the house.

Spike tightens his jaw, bobs his head at Willow, gives me that classic head tilt that makes me melt inside, and trails my sister into the house.

In and out of the house we go, wearing our emotions on our faces like clowns.

We're just doing so well for the cameras.

Bloody cameras.

* * *

"So, Will, what do you think?"

"Bout Spike living with you and Dawn?" Willow is teasing now that's she's heard the whole story. . . or my edited version of the story sans Spike sex and the uncomfortable talk I had with him on the back porch.

"No, about the camera thing." I take a sip of lemonade and pick up my plate of pizza. Spike was sweet enough to bring Willow and me a plate of food. (Spike and sweet in the same sentence? Call me denial girl.) Now we're watching the rain fall to the ground in a soft curtain and happily munching.

"I'm not sure, but I don't think it's legal," Willow says after swallowing a bite.

Not legal? That means all the stupid little stunts Spike, Dawn, and I pulled in front of the cameras mean nothing! "That's good news, right? If we can prove what they're doing is illegal, then, Dawn's case gets thrown out."

"Not necessarily. And like I said, I'm not sure yet. I think I'll do some poking around on the net and make a few phone calls."

"Sure that you can handle that?" I'm worried about my best friend. Even though she's eating pizza, she doesn't look like she's been gorging herself of late.

"Yeah. I can." She catches my incredulous look and adds, "It's not like when Oz left. I'm taking better care of myself this time. Promise."

I accept her position without question. "Okay." She's my best friend; who am I to doubt her?

The wall of silence rules for a few seconds as we eat. Then, Willow asks, "So, the Spike thing is what?"

I set aside my empty plate, picking at the crumbs with my index finger. "A means to an end. A way to keep Dawn here with us and get social services out of our hair. . . for good."

"So, Dawn doesn't go live with your dad, and social services disappears. What'll you do about Spike then?"

Even though she's sitting right across from me, now I can't look at Willow . . . not when she asks me about Spike with such directness. "He'll go back to living in his crypt."

"You don't think this'll lead him on? Cause, well, last year, breathing in his direction led him on."

Last year was. . . last year. No one had died yet. Mom died. I died. That's a whole lot of death between then and now. "It's different now between Spike and me." At least, that's the truth.

I sneak a glance at Willow. The little crease between her eyes has appeared. "How different?"

"Well, he helps a lot more now instead of just skulking in the shadows. He's an out-of-the-closet Scoobie now." Willow doesn't look convinced, so I tack on, "It's not just cause of me either. He was helping you guys before I came back to life. He didn't even know what you guys had planned with the. . . resurrection spell thing."

I flat out state Willow's responsibility for my current situation in this world. She deserves to hear it. After all, she brought me back when I shouldn't have returned. Plus, she almost got Dawn killed with her selfish abuse of magic.

Me? Resentful? Maybe just a little.

Willow shifts uncomfortably. "He's still soulless."

*Exactly* my point. That's what I keep telling him. He doesn't listen, and he's not letting me ignore him. "Doesn't mean he isn't useful muscle to have around. I mean, a demon killing other demons is an excellent weapon."

"Nice to know I fit in the 'object' category," a gruff voice comes from behind me.

I freeze. Damn. I'm not even getting the vampire vibe off him anymore. Without turning around, I ask, "How long have you been there, Spike?"

"Long enough," he mumbles almost inaudibly. Then, with greater volume, he adds, "So, Red. Thought I'd ask you to mind the Little Bit tonight while the Slayer and I go out."

Suddenly, I'm annoyed, and I twist to glare at him. "*We're* not going anywhere tonight."

His eyes narrow in return, but I catch the flash of hurt before he quickly buries it. "Don't you want to get in a workout?"

My heart skips a beat. Please don't let Willow notice anything. "What? Eww. Get your brain out of the gutter."

I expect a smart-ass line in response. Instead, he gives me, "I meant patrolling, pet."

"Oh."

Willow rescues me, "That'll actually give me an excellent chance to check out their camera system and give Dawnie and me some time to maybe reconcile. . . or start anyway."

"Oh." I'm not getting out of this, am I?

"You may at least want to pretend it's a date, Buffy," she adds in a much less rescue-y fashion.

Spike is silent, and I hold my breath.

"For the benefit of the social workers, of course," Willow says as she pushes up from the ground, picking up her glass and plate.

Right.

Look at newly undead Buffy. She already has a date.

* * *

"You're *not* wearing that out of this house!"

Balancing on the third step of the staircase, I teeter on the tips of my toes so that I'm taller than Spike. "Why not?"

"Because that is *not* an outfit for patr. . . a date!"

Shifting my weight in my highest high heels, I examine my short black skirt and cherry red blouse. My short blonde hair is freshly washed and styled around my shoulders. I'm actually quite proud that I've managed to hide two stakes beneath the flimsy fabrics. "What's wrong with this? It's what I wear all the time."

Here I am caring about what Spike thinks of my appearance.

"The whole outfit's not practical. You might fall in those bloody. . . ," he waves his hand at my feet, ". . . insignificant shoes. . . and and di. . . get hurt."

I ignore his reference to my recent passing. "I have very good coordination, thank you. And since when was this whole arrangement practical?"

Spike's just wearing his usual black jeans and black T-shirt. For once, his long coat is missing. "Since you said so."

Oops. I walked right into that one.

"So, on our date, I should dress in the same old thing I always wear like you do?"

Almost self-consciously, Spike touches his chest and turns his attention to himself. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You always wear black! Don't you like any other colors?"

Spike's lips quirk, and he spreads his arms to me. "Looks like you dressed to match me. We fit."

Okay. That's it. Spike and I so do *not* fit, especially together! "Fine. I'll change."

Willow appears at Spike's side as I start to stomp back up the stairs. "Buffy? Enough with the arguing already. You better get going on your *date* before it gets too late." She taps her watch. "It's already 10 o'clock."

I pivot on Spike. "I can wear the heels?"

Spike snorts. "Fine. Don't say I didn't tell you so."

I scamper down the stairs toward the front door, snatching my light leather jacket from the coat rack. Can't have Spike getting too many ideas. I pull the coat over my shoulders, push my left arm through a sleeve, and hold the door open for Spike with my newly cloaked arm. "After you."

Spike shakes his head at me before passing me and intentionally brushing his arm against my lone bare one.

I shiver in a cloak of deep, penetrating waves of desire.

Oh, boy.

I'm a Slayer in big, big trouble.

With determination to fight my feelings, I shrug on my jacket and follow the vampire into the night.

* * *

Focusing my Slayer senses, I weave my way through the cemetery, dodging tombstones and stepping over flower arrangements with the deft grace of a huntress. The moon is full above, casting a hazy white glow over the graveyard and heightening the need for silent movement. A breeze trips over the edges of the tree leaves and lifts the ends of my hair, making me feel light and somehow more powerful. My ears remain perked for any sound that is out of the ordinary. I cradle a wooden stake against each palm, ever ready for dusting.

No vampire better cross my path. That's all I have to say.

Spike can't keep up with me.

Well, that's a bit of a stretch.

At first, Spike stalked along beside me, but when I ignored him, he disappeared behind, melting into the shadows like a ghost.

Good.

I want to shake him. I have to protect myself because if I'm alone too long with him, how am I going to focus on patrolling?

There are vampires out there who could kill innocent men, women, and children while I'm. . . handling Spike.

A scratching, almost like a rat climbing through the walls of an old house, resounds from my left, and I hone in on the noise, being silent as a whisper as I circle round and come at the noise from between two large bushes. I find myself on the perimeter of a grave secluded from the rest of the graves and surrounded by a few trees whose branches are blocking the moonlight. The ground next to the small marble tombstone is covered in freshly turned soil.

A new grave.

New soil coupled with scratching can mean only one thing. . .

A fledgling vampire is rising.

Squatting to the ground to wait in the brush, I grip the stake in my right hand and slip the other in the waistband of my skirt.

In an instant, the breeze changes, and the gust pushes aside the tree branches over the tiny clearing, illuminating the grave in a ghostly light. A hand thrusts forth from the soil, sending crumbles of dirt raining across the headstone.

Without warning, clumps of earth begin pouring from above, pummeling my shoulders, arms, and head. The light intensifies to an almost blinding white, and I spring forward to escape the onslaught only to crash into the emerging vampire. My high heels squish into the soft, damp dirt, and I vaguely think that Spike will be soon be pelting me with "I told you so's." The vamp grunts softly on impact with me, and his newborn strength pushes me so that I hit the icy stone behind me.

Using the energy from falling to lurch off the uncertain ground onto the firmer grassy areas around the grave, I hear more scratching sounds. . . like a thousand rats clawing under the ground. The noise increases exponentially with each second, mirroring the thunder of my heart and the unevenness of my breath.

Somehow, someone has buried an unknown number of vampires in this clearing, and I couldn't detect them until they were all rising at once.

I blink rapidly in the sudden complete darkness, trying desperately to see the fledgling that I know is somewhere around me. My head is pounding with the almost thrum of approaching danger. Maybe I can at least dust him before the world around me is consumed with who knows how many other vampires.

Before I can do anything, the steady rock beneath my feet begins to rapidly melt away like a sugar cube in hot coffee. The stake drops from my hand as my arms fly out to grasp onto anything.

But I'm too late to find a grip.

I try to cry out for help. . . for Spike whom I know is out there somewhere, but no breath passes my lips. Like a fish out of water, I find myself gasping for air that's not to be found, and my body is consumed by cold arms and bodies that are grabbing and pummeling at me from all sides.

Death wants me back.

* * *

I blink.

Yellow. . . all I see is a blurry soft-gold color over me.

And I can breathe again! Air is actually entering and leaving my lungs without effort.

"Shouldn't have worn the heels, love."

I turn my head toward the familiar voice and grimace as every muscle in my body cries out with a single motion. Funny, all my sexy Spike thoughts have gone down the toilet. "Ha ha."

I wiggle my toes and discover I'm no longer wearing shoes.

Something soft and moist runs over my forehead. The touch feels wonderful. The voice that accompanies the feeling soothes me even though I don't want it to. "You almost let that vamp kill you."

My mind is having trouble focusing. "What do you mean?"

"You don't remember?" The motion over my head pauses, and his surprise is unhidden.

"All I remember is. . ." I hesitate. Everything in my head is a blur. . . kind of like my vision right now. I shake my head, groaning at the pain.

"You saw something, didn't you, pet?"

Flashes of arms and legs, blinding light, and showers of soil fill my mind's eye. "Yeah. . . I-I think so."

He says nothing for several seconds before he asks, "How many times have you seen something that wasn't. . . like that?"

"Heard," I whisper, closing my eyes.

A cool hand touches my forearm. "What?"

"T-there were sounds, too."

"What kind of sounds, love?"

Rats. . . lots and lots of rats. That makes no sense. "Dunno." I bring my hand to my head as if touch can shake my memories loose.

"How many times have you. . . experienced something like that?"

Irritation shoots through me. I wish he'd just leave me the hell alone. Isn't he making this harder for me by constantly reminding me that something's wrong with me? "*Don't know.*"

Impatience highlights his tone, "You'd better figure it out."

Abruptly, he leaves my side, and I re-open my eyes to find the world is slightly less fuzzy and bright. I determine not to speak again until he apologizes for being so intrusive. He's the vampire; I'm the Slayer. For all intents and purposes, he should be a pile of dust right now.

I know I'm being irrational, but I don't care at the moment.

Spike can't stand silence for too long; he'll come up with something to say.

What he chooses to say better be off the topic of me falling apart.

I have more important things to think about. . . like keeping Dawn out of the clutches of social services.

I've pretty much made up my mind to be stubborn, so I'm startled at what comes out of my open mouth, "So, this type thing is similar to what you saw with. . ."

His voice is muffled, "Angel. Yes."

"*Angelus*," I insist.

He emits a humorless laugh, "Whatever. Angel, Angelus. . . essentially the same being."

Despite my brain's better judgment, I sit up on what I realize is a pile of mats and face the now significantly less blurry form across whatever space we're in, "No! Angel without his soul. . . he has no choice in his behavior."

His volume doesn't raise a notch. "That's just what you like to tell yourself. Makes you feel better about how things turned out between the two of you. Makes you feel less responsible for what he did."

I hate when anything he says contains a grain of truth.

I cross my arms over my sore midsection. "It's common knowledge. Vampires are soulless. . . and therefore lacking in a conscience and therefore *evil.*"

He gets closer so that I can see the seriousness of his expression. He better watch himself, or I'll clock him. . . despite the beating I've taken. "Won't argue on the evil vampire bit. But in reality, all beings have a choice. . . soul or no soul."

"Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. You've lived so long; you've seen pretty much everything. Or you think you have. Name one instance where that's the case."

Then, he's no longer in my face, and he turns his back on me. "If you don't know by now, pet, I can't help you."

For reasons I can't fathom. . . or let myself fathom, I stand in what I now recognize as the Magic Box training room. With a slight limp from pain in my knee, I reach out and place my hand in the small of Spike's back. I can feel the strength of his back muscles through his cotton shirt. He's so strong. . . . He could have let me die tonight, and he didn't.

"What happened. . . out there tonight. . ." I hesitate. "I-it's never happened before."

Statue-like, he still doesn't face me. "No? That's good." He sounds tired.

My heart rate accelerates. "W-what does that mean?"

"I'm not sure." He steps forward away from my touch.

He's not letting me close. My whole world feels like it's falling apart. What happened in the graveyard tonight doesn't make any sense at all, and now he's rejecting me.

Hot tears bubble up from nowhere and course down my cheeks. My legs threaten to buckle as I start to shake.

"Spike. . . I-I'm scared."

I'd forgotten my injuries until his arms are around me, and then, bright stars sparkle in my eyes. I groan despite my best efforts.

He whispers in my ear, "I'm here. I'm sorry. . . it's just. . ."

I catch my breath and match his tone, "I hurt you."

Boy, I'm admitting some interesting things to myself tonight. Must be because I'm feeling vulnerable.

"Yeah," he acknowledges.

I snuggle into his embrace and bury my face into his chest. Figure that's the only way I can hold myself up. "W-what did you see happen out there?"

"You were fine, and I was following you."

I sniffle. "What else is new?"

"And then, at the grave when the vamp punched through the ground. . ."

"Everything went bonkers. . . so bright," I finish for Spike.

"I just saw you start to fight him, and you staggered around like you. . ."

"Dirt was falling all over me. . . from somewhere," I finish lamely. "A-and the rats. . .scratching. . ."

His hand twines in my hair. "The vamp grabbed you. . ."

"The ground. . . went away, a-and all these d-dead a-arms. . ." A sob escapes unbidden, and tears blossom and fall anew.

"Shhh." His arm tightens around my waist. "You're safe now. I dusted the vamp and brought you back here."

"Was. . . did he?"

"He was beating you pretty badly, but I pulled him off of you before he could bite you. He met a dusty ending. I promise."

I can't seem to stop crying. Spike lifts me gently and carries me to the pile of mats. He slides on top of them and cradles me in his arms.

As soon as the sobs cease and the hiccups are under control, I ask a tentative question, "T-this is what happened to Angelus. . . his victims?"

Spike says nothing as he formulates an answer to my question. Then, "I believe so, love."

I look up to search his eyes. "Why is it getting worse?"

"Explain what you mean."

I stare off at the display of weapons on the Magic Box wall. "B-before. . . what happened tonight was just a dream. . . a nightmare."

Spike shifts his weight slightly. "I think that it's getting worse because you're talking about it. . . or at least thinking about it more."

"About what?" I already know the answer.

"How you came back."

I feel like a child asking her parent too many questions. "B-but. . . what's wrong with me?"

Spike changes position again so that I'm upright in his lap, but his arms are still supporting me. "Buffy."

Now he's got my attention. He's using my name. I lower my eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Buffy, you were taken out of. . . a place where you were at peace and thrust into this world of death. . . of sacred duty. . . of unhappiness. You had to dig your way out of your own grave. You had to deal with the fact that your most trusted friends took away that peace and presented you with pain."

I'm crying yet again.

He changes the focus off me, "Angel's. . . Angelus's victims went through something very similar. They were at peace. . . happy with their lives. The torture they endured. . . it was very traumatic. . . more than many of them could handle, including Dru. Their minds rebelled against such trauma. . . it couldn't be happening to them. They denied it, but the memories of what they endured. . . were enduring remained bubbling under the surface."

The picture is becoming clearer. "They. . . the memories. . . the trauma. . . c-came out."

"Yes. They had dreams. . . they saw and heard things that weren't there. I saw it all."

I shake my head. "B-but I'm supposed to be stronger than them. . . I'm the Slayer. This shouldn't be happening to me."

"Dru was strong. Her faith in God was almost unbreakable, but Angelus persisted, and she broke. Poor woman was never the same again. She had nightmares for the longest time, and her mind. . . not always very clear. And little things stressed her."

"And you took care of her. . . like you're taking care of me." My eyebrows furrow, and I almost pout. I'm too drained to be angry. "I don't need you to take care of me."

Before he can respond, I add with a trace of bitterness, "You just like women who need you to take care of them. You like to keep us down, so you can do whatever you want."

"That's not true!" Spike retorts, gripping my elbows. "I'm here because I. . ." The storm in his eyes winks away. "I'm here because I know that unlike Dru, you have the strength and tenacity to beat this, too. I *want* you to be the feisty Slayer I know and. . . care about."

Choosing to ignore the implication about his feelings, I ask my most burning question, "Think I can?"

He sighs. "Can what?"

"Stop this stuff. . . the nightmares. . . the hallucinations. . . from happening to me?"

"Yes."

And to top off my shocking revelations of the evening, I dip my head close to his. "Will you be there with me?"

"What do you think?" he breathes, his lips millimeters from mine.

"I think. . . this has turned out to be some date."

With every nerve in my body singing, I dive into the deep end of unknown territory.


	8. Eighth, Make Love and Not War

I'm completely and utterly lost in Spike. 

Here I am with Spike in the Magic Box. . . in my training room, no less, and my warm lips are moving against his cool ones in time to the steady rhythm of my heart. For the first time, I don't feel the hasty urgency of needing to fix everything right away. . . of having to fill the hollow pit of my stomach with the heat of passion. 

There's an answer to the desperation I've been feeling since I returned to life. . . there's a reason for the nightmares and the disconnection and the wildly shifting emotions. 

For the first time, our hands aren't moving everywhere across the landscape of our bodies in a haphazard endeavor to remove clothing and press flesh to flesh. Instead, Spike's hands remain steady against my back and right hip, and my hands are around his unmoving waist. 

All our energy is focused on the gentle glide of lip on lip, tongue over tongue until I'm left gasping. 

He pulls back just enough to let me catch my breath. "I'm here, pet. I'm here." 

His eyes are as clear as the ocean around one of those tropical islands that I've only ever seen in pictures. I can't help myself. "Thank you." The words come out in a whisper. 

His lips part as if he's about to reply. 

But I never hear Spike's response. 

"I don't believe I've ever seen training done quite like this," an irritated voice says from across my sparring room. 

Anya's caught us. 

I jerk back from Spike, my hands fluttering in the search for a place to light other than Spike's body. Spike is equally shocked and probably upset by my behavior, but he protects me anyway. 

Grasping my hips, he lifts me and sets me gently on my feet. "Buffy was hurt." 

Anya frowns and shifts the rather large book she's holding in her arms. "How? In lip lock?" 

I clear my throat. Can't stand when people talk about me in front of me. Seems a lot of people have been doing that lately. 

"We went patrolling, and there were. . . was. . ." How to explain that one measly vampire got the best of me? 

"There was an ambush," Spike finishes. 

We glance at each other, and his right shoulder gives a little shrug. I continue, "And Spike helped me." 

"And Buffy was hurt," Spike repeats in an awkward fashion. 

"R-iii-ght." Anya narrows her eyes. 

Even as Xander's fiancé is staring Spike and me down, I have the urge to step back into his arms. After all, aside from Dawn, he has been the only one truly there for me since I came back. . . here. 

Spike hops off the exercise mats and steps away from me. . . farther away from me than is required, and now I know he's bothered by my reaction to Anya's entrance. "It's true," he says, and I'm reminded that he's a terrible liar. That's one thing I usually appreciate about Spike quite a lot, but today, not so much. 

"Say, what are you doing here so late? It has to be what. . . one in the morning or later?" I note. 

Anya looks uncomfortable and suddenly seems to be studying the wall. "Nothing." 

"Yeah. What's with the book?" Spike asks, advancing on the ex-demon. 

Her eyes shift to the right as she slams the open volume shut. The pages emit a small puff of dust. "Nothing at all." 

Anya's not such a great liar herself. 

"Well," I say, bending over to slip on my heels. "If you're doing nothing. Spike and I were doing nothing, too." 

Confusion transforms into understanding in the blink of an eye. "Okay," she agrees with haste. "I saw nothing. . . no way, no how." And then, she scurries out of the training room and into the front of the store. 

I follow her to the door. "Us either!" 

Shutting the door firmly, I turn back. "Well, that was a close. . ." 

Spike is gone, and the back door is still moving from the motion of his exit. 

Bewildered, I scramble after him, filing Anya's behavior away for another day. 

I have too much else to worry about. . . 

. . . like a cranky. . . well, hurt vampire. 

* * * 

Arms swinging, Spike hurries around the corner. He's using the extra height he has on me to outdistance me. Skipping a bit on my good leg to avoid putting too much weight on my injured knee, I attempt to catch up. 

"Hey!" I shout. 

He keeps going. 

"Wait up." Tufts of my new shorter haircut blow across my eyes, and I unsuccessfully blow the strands out of the way. 

No response. 

Finally, at the entrance to the movie theater, my leg starts throbbing. 

"I can't keep up. My knee." I grab his hand in attempt to slow him down. 

At my touch, he abruptly stops, arms still moving. As if my hand's made of acid, he yanks away from me. 

"What's wrong with you?" I demand. "Why are you acting this way?" 

"No reason," he growls. 

I try to hold his eyes with my own but fail. Annoyance boils in my stomach. My emotions can't take much more of the emotional-roller-coaster thing tonight. "Yes. It's something. What?" I can't stop the bitchy tone from coloring my voice, and for the first time, I'm not happy that I'm aiming it at Spike. 

He starts to leave again, but I grasp his upper arm with my right hand and whirl him around despite the pain still groaning through my body. I really need to go to bed. 

"Tell me what's wrong," I command, emphasizing each syllable. 

The muscle in his cheek twitches as if he's gritting his teeth, and he keeps his eyes lowered. 

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on." The longer he's not being responsive with me, the more my inner self is quivering in fear. I don't know what I'll do if he decides to go away right now. I'm the one who's supposed to be avoiding him. . . not the other way around. 

"I'm tired, Buffy," he says so quietly that I almost can't hear him. 

My gaze is intent on him. My voice lowers to match his, "Tired of what?" 

"This game. . . this charade." 

My heart sinks; I hate this space between us. "What game?" I know very well what game. 

"Hiding what's going on between you and me." 

"We're doing it for Dawn. . . so she doesn't have to go away. It'll just be a little longer, and you can go back to your crypt and doing your. . . vampire things." 

That's not what he means, of course. 

And he gives me that look that says he knows the words I just uttered are total bullshit. 

"You mean what we just told Anya? That's just to keep her and Xander off our backs. We really don't need more people knowing until the situation with social services is resolved. Then. . ." 

"Then, it'll go back to being the way it was before. . . instead of partially hiding this. . ." he gestures back and forth with two fingers, ". . . it'll go back to complete denial of any connection between us." 

Right. Well, that's right, right? Really. Sleep is needed. "Yeah," I murmur as a half-statement, half-question. 

He closes his eyes at my confirmation, and he slumps against a half-torn movie poster. "Don't know if I can keep doing this, Slayer." 

His words cut me like a knife. 

And before I can think, I launch myself into his arms and hug his ribs tightly. "Please." 

He hugs back but without much enthusiasm. "After this. . . after I help with Dawn, I'm not going to do this anymore. I'll still help out, but I'm not going to let you keep on. . ." 

"You said you'd be here for me. . . help me with the hallucinations and nightmares." I hate the whine in my voice, but my insides are consumed with genuine panic. 

Could his bizarre push and pull with me be related to the push and pull I'm doing with him? 

"Yeah. I'll be there, but not this way. If you need more support than just listening, you'll need to see a shrink or something, pet." He sounds defeated. 

I'm dizzy at the thought of losing the cushion of his presence. "W-what if I consider letting the others know. . . after the social services thing is over with? I can't promise miracles, but I can try." I pause and then add, "I-I just can't handle another emotional upheaval right now on top of. . . everything." 

His arms pull me closer, and a mix of desire and relief floods over me. 

His voice is still soft as he speaks against the top of my head. "I know you've been through a lot, Buffy. But do know that there's only so much one. . . vampire can take." 

He's highlighted his demon for me. . . his lack of soul. 

I make a feeble attempt to remind myself that I can't let myself get too close to a soulless demon. . . not again. 

And yet. . . here we are. 

After a long embrace, I slowly push away and look up at him. Now his clear blue eyes focus on me instead of elsewhere. 

I can't read them. 

I stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. My words tell him that for now, we're together, "Let's go home." 

* * *

Willow is sleeping on the front porch swing wrapped in a blanket she's pulled from the closet. A little piece of paper is propped on the front of the cloth, and from the sidewalk, I imagine what it probably says: 

"Please do not disturb." 

"Redhead at rest." 

"Witch a'waitin'." 

"Kiss me. I'm yours. . .. but only if you're Tara." 

Spike squeezes my hand. We've been holding hands since my house came into view from the street corner. Gotta at least look the part of girlfriend and boyfriend. His hand is cold and heavy against my palm, and I'm reminded that our connection is still far from sturdy despite his outward placidity. 

"What are you talking about, pet?" 

Oops. Hadn't realized I'd said that stuff out loud. "Nothin'," I say with a levity I've sworn to use around Spike. . . for now. 

Besides, I sometimes get these pockets of time when I feel okay about being alive, and they mostly happen when my brain is too tired to form a coherent thought. 

"Talking to yourself. Never a good sign of sanity," he teases. Apparently, he's decided to play along, too. I have to admit that I feel better, and for some reason, shoots of desire streak across my belly along the inner length of my thighs. 

I giggle. "Nope. Not sane. Buffy is not and never was sane." I let go of his hand and dance ahead of him in a little circle. The pain in my body is much less, but I can't tell if it's because I'm so worn out. "Certifiably insane. . . that's me." 

"Going all Dru on me, then?" 

"Yep." God, I'm drunk with exhaustion. I skip up the front steps and teeter back and forth a little as I face Spike. I spread my arms. "Hee! I'm drunk." 

"Or something," he says as he catches up with me. 

"Or tired," I amend. "The bed sounds good about now." 

Spike leans around me in attempt to check on Willow. "Let's see what Red has to say first." 

"I'd rather. . ." 

I take him by the shoulders and kiss him hard on the lips. I have to know if he's going anywhere just yet. He hesitates at first. . . just long enough for my heart to skip a beat, and then, he kisses me back, matching my ardor with his own. I relax into the kiss with relief. 

As I pause to catch my breath, he asks, "Shouldn't we?" He gestures at the sleeping Willow. 

I put my finger to my lips and shake my head no. Tilting my head toward the front door, I give him a little grin, hooking the same finger in the waist of his jeans and giving them a tug. 

He groans as my skin contacts his. "Wanna give the cameras a show, love?" 

The corner of my mouth quirks up, and he takes that as consent. 

Within seconds the door is open, closed, and locked, and he's leading me toward the kitchen. 

As he flicks on the light switch, I ask, "Here?" 

He spares me a brief glance, and I see the merriment in his eyes. "No, that won't do. Dawn might catch us. But. . ." he flings open the refrigerator door, "thirsty." 

"Oh." I'm amused. Guess he hasn't had any blood all day. 

Spike stops touching me long enough to rummage around in the back of the appliance. He locates the empty milk carton of blood he's hidden behind a container of moldy cheese, spins open the lid, and drinks with such swiftness and neatness that he's done before I realize. 

He licks his lips, replaces the carton, and rinses his mouth with water from the sink. "Done." 

Before I can say anything in response, he seizes my hips and presses them into his own so that I quiver with longing. "Want me, love?" 

"Yes," I breathe as I feel just how much he wants me. 

He bends to whisper in my ear, "We've talked about a lot of stuff tonight. Before we do this, I just want you to know that I haven't forgotten it." 

I nod; at this moment, I don't care. I just want him to never stop touching me. 

"Truce?" 

I nod again. 

"Great." 

With that, he lifts me in his arms, and being of weary mind and body, I let him carry me up the stairs. . . even though I can most definitely take care of myself. 

He takes the stairs two at a time, pausing to kiss me every so often. His lips are firm, and I relish the slight tang of coppery blood that remains on his breath. I'm impatient with hunger and flushed with desire as we enter my bedroom. He hurriedly turns on the lamp beside my bed, and cool air rushes between us. 

As if surprised by the change in temperature, he stops short. 

His eyes lock with mine, and a blaze of passion sparks between us. I squirm and climb out of his arms, kicking off my high heels and peeling off my blouse at the same time. I'm grateful to be on even ground again, but my knee objects, and I perch on the edge of my bed for a moment until the pain subsides. 

I watch him. I can't help myself. 

Spike slides his shirt over his head, and in a single movement, he slings the cloth over the end of the camera in my bedroom, effectively shielding us from those-who-are-watching. Then, he's upon me, gliding his hands on either side of me and leaning me back against the pillows. In a familiar dance, he slips off my panties and skirt and unlatches my bra, and I unbutton and peel away his jeans, freeing him of constraint. 

"Now. Please," I beg as he knocks our clothing to the floor. 

As he presses into me, he murmurs, "They don't get to see more than I do." 

Before I let myself get completely lost again, I finish with the same words I uttered earlier, "Thank you, Spike." 

Things between Spike and I aren't perfect. . . aren't as tender as before we were caught by Anya, but they are definitely different. For the first time, I have hope that I'll be okay. 

The white flag is raised. 

Everything and everyone else can wait until tomorrow.


	9. Ninth, Don't Neglect Responsibilities

Note to self: make sure to arrange sleeping positions so that the vampire doesn't end up by the telephone. 

Cause then, well, bad things tend to happen. 

In the haze of sleepiness, I think I heard the phone ring once. . . and I definitely remember Spike's brief curse as he picked up and slammed down the receiver. 

But then, dreams claimed me again, and the next thing I know. . . 

"Good morning!" a voice sing-songs in my ear. . . loudly in my ear. 

I groan as my dreams are disrupted. They were peaceful dreams, too. . . the kind I haven't had in a while. 

"Rise and shine, Buffy!" 

"Dawn?" I croak, stirring my arms and legs to wake them from the pull of unconsciousness. I seem to have grown an extra set of legs, and there's a third arm around my waist. Either that or someone's in bed with. . . 

Oh. My. God. 

I abruptly sit up, somehow mindfully holding the sheet to my bare chest. The sheet is wrapped around the still sleeping vampire next to me, and he emits a small groan as the cloth stretches taut. Thankfully, the sheet still covers us both. 

My voice is a sharper cry. "Dawn!" 

She's staring at me, taking in. . . my nakedness. Her eyes flicker to Spike, but before she has a chance to fully realize what she's seeing. . . 

"Get out!" I don my best pissed-off-sister face and distract her with my finger pointed emphatically at the door. 

Eyes wide as a rabbit's, she bolts out of the room, and I hastily disentangle myself to follow after her and slam the door. Heart pounding, I lean against the door in partial relief. 

But now I have to have yet another talk with my little sister. What can I possibly say to explain this? 

Leaning against the wall, Spike looks comfortable with the sheet around his waist. 

And he's watching me with a smirk on his face. 

I shoot a glare at him. "It's not funny." 

"Didn't say it was, love." 

Dashing around, I throw a pair of jeans and a fairly unwrinkled peasant blouse on along with a pair of sandals. In between articles of my own clothing, I toss Spike his jeans and a fresh shirt out of the closet. He dresses much more slowly than me. 

"Hurry up," I command with my arms crossed. 

"Eager to get out there and explain to Dawn exactly what she saw?" he asks, his voice slightly muffled by the cotton shirt he's putting his head through. 

"No. Eager to get things in order." I yank his dirty shirt off the camera. "Dawn has school tomorrow." 

"Riigghhht." He sounds like Anya did last night. 

Piling up all the dirty clothes and bed sheets, I point to the pile. "And Spike has laundry to do." 

"Let's see here." He puts a finger to his chin and looks thoughtful. "Ummm. No." 

I bat my eyes and tilt my head toward the camera. "Now, hun. You *know* it's always been your job around here to do the laundry." 

Getting the hint, Spike sighs, gathers up the laundry, and stalks past me, making sure to shoot me a soft growl of discontent. "*Not* in the contract," he whispers, almost inaudibly. 

Despite the issues between Spike and me that lurk in the morning shadows, I can't help but grin. 

* * *

Dawn's standing at the kitchen island, awkwardly pouring herself some cereal and trying to turn the page on the comics section of the newspaper at the same time. She doesn't even bother to look up as I enter. "It's raining." 

For the first time, I notice the wet windowpanes through the open blinds. 

"Was that Spike who just came by with the laundry?" 

I bite my lower lip and try to play it cool. "Yep." 

"That's interesting. Think he'll do mine, too?" She shakes the Pops box up and down. "Ugh." 

"Here let me." Anything to avoid the topic that I know will inevitably come up. 

I take the box from my sister and straighten the plastic bag so that the puffs can pour into the bowl more easily. "He might. If you're sweet to him." 

"Are you speaking for me again?" Spike asks, appearing from the basement where the sound of the washer has started. 

"*Pretty please*?" Dawn begs. 

Spike rolls his eyes. "Fine." Grumbling, he crosses behind us to get to the refrigerator and his carton of blood. "What I do to hold this household together." 

"What did you say?" I ask just as the phone rings. 

He shrugs as he takes a big swig out of the milk carton. He shakes the box at me as I pass him. "Need more milk. Gotta develop big, strong bones." 

"Later." I pick up the phone. So far, so good. Dawn's said nothing about what she saw this morning. "Hello?" 

"Let me in!" 

"Willow?" Oh my go. . . we left Willow outside! 

The doorbell rings. 

"H-hang on. Just a sec." I hang up the phone and race to the front door, flinging it open. 

A gust of cool air and the clean smell of rain greet me. . . along with a rather rumpled, shivering Willow. 

"Fell asleep outside. Why didn't you wake me?" She seems more sleepy than angry. At least, the porch is covered, so she didn't get soaked. . . and she had a blanket. 

"I'm so sorry. We got in late. . . wait, how did you call from the front porch?"

Willow shrugs and holds up a small phone. “Cell phone. Figured if I’m going back to technology, may as well go all in.” She moves to stand beside me in the entry way as I shut the door. "Did you have a long night patro. . . on your date?" 

"You could say that." 

She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "Did you stak. . . get a lot of. . . have fun?" 

"I didn't have. . . steak. Spike got that." I won't tell her it was in more ways than one. "And we spent time. . . talking. Too tired. Went right to bed." 

"O-oh. Maybe next time, you could invite me in? I forgot my key." 

"I'm *so* sorry about that. Why don't you take a shower?" 

"Thanks." She starts to ascend the stairs. "Oh, and Buffy?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Got info for ya." She hands me the slip of paper I remember seeing last night. “And it’s not what I thought it’d be.”

"Oh good!" Yay! No more stupid camera stuff! 

She studies her shoes. "And the stuff with Dawnie. . ." 

"Yeah?" 

"Not so good." 

"I'm sorry. I want to hear about both things," I reassure her. 

"Shower first?" Poor Willow looks miserable after a night on a porch swing. 

"Yeah, yeah. Definitely." I wave my arms to point toward the kitchen. "I'll, I'll be in the kitche. . ." 

Then, I hear, "So, Spike, tell me about *your date* with Buffy last night. When'd you guys get home?" 

Gotta put a stop to that before Spike says too much. 

"Well, pet. It was definitely interesting." 

Great, just great. Why do I always feel like I'm doing a dance to hold things together around here? 

As soon as I walk in the kitchen, I give them a pointed look, and they quiet down like cats who have been caught with a canary. At least, I still have some bit of control. . . for the moment. 

I nod, and they follow me onto the back porch. Little drops of rain are still lightly drizzling, but what Willow's written on the slip of paper may be too important to worry about getting a tad wet. And hey, grey sky means that Spike won't combust. . . although I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing right now. 

"What does it say?" Dawn asks eagerly, cradling her cast under a kitchen towel to prevent the plaster from getting too wet. 

"I gather that you and Willow still aren't speaking." 

She juts her chin out in a flash of defiance. "I gather that you and Spike were doing something you don't want to talk about last night." 

A grin spreads across Spike's face. I shift from one foot to another. Stupid vampire's loving this. "Let's just see what Willow wrote." 

"I think I want to hear the other part of the conversation first," Spike says, raising his eyebrows and leaning against the house. 

"No!" Dawn and I say at the same time. 

"Fine. Open the bloody paper and tell us what it says before the sky opens up again." 

My hands tremble a little as I unfold the note. Willow was right. I don't know what I was expecting, but the words on the page were not what anything I would have remotely thought. 

"What's it say?" Spike asks me, startling me out of my shock. “Let me guess. . . it’s Warren, Jonathan, and. . . that other one.”

That would make sense given everything that’s been happening lately, but it’s not them. When I don't respond, Spike pokes at the top of the paper, pushing it down so he can read the message aloud. . . 

"Watcher's Council?" 

* * *

All I know is I've got to get out of this house. If the Watcher's Council has anything to do with the state of my. . . this household and Dawn's future, there'll be hell to pay. 

I grab the car keys, barely noticing the cold metal against my palm. I turn to the bewildered vampire who's followed me into the kitchen. 

"Here," I say, my tone flat. I dangle the keys in front of his nose. 

"What's this, pet?" he asks gently. 

"Drive me." I can't look him in the eye, so I stare at his chest. 

"Drive you where?" 

"What's going on?" asks Dawn, slamming the back door. 

I give her an even expression. "Spike's taking me to the Magic Box." 

"What for?" 

"Have to call Giles," I reply, starting for the door and the car. My mind is set on one goal and one goal only. . . confronting the man who has all the answers. 

"Can't you drive yourself?" Dawn asks. 

I don't answer. I can't tell Dawn that I'm afraid if I drive, I'll use up the remainder of my resources. . . resources that are holding me together right now and keeping me from completely breaking down in tears and climbing back in bed. Gotta keep moving. 

Flinging open the door, I pause on the threshold, glancing back over my shoulder. "Coming?" 

Spike has a silent exchange with my sister and then, makes a decision. "Right." 

Dawn makes a move to follow him, but I hold up my hand. "Nope. You stay." 

"But I wanna come!" she pouts. 

My mind races. "You need to stay here and let Willow know where we've gone." 

She frowns at me like she might insist on coming. Then, "Fine. I'll stay." 

Geez. The ice is just hanging off her words. Since when did my little sis get so angry? 

I'll worry about that another time. . . just like everything else. Damn it. 

I'm already out the door when Dawn shouts after us, "And what if the sun comes out when you guys are driving?" 

I waver and then, clear my throat. "We'll deal!" 

* * *

Does Dawn have to be right? Little sisters aren't supposed to know what they're talking about. 

Halfway to the Magic Box, Spike's hand bursts into a bright flame as the sun peeks around a cloud. With a curse, he jerks his one hand from the steering wheel, and the car lurches right. My heart jumps with the motion. 

With my right hand, I grab for the side of the car and reach a steadying hand for the steering wheel with my other. 

Spike shakes his ignited hand and slams it into his stomach, rolling the bottom of his shirt up to put out the fire. 

The car wobbles precariously in the lane under my one-handed guidance. "Spike! Help!" 

Another sunbeam finds a home in the car just as he reaches out to aid my efforts, and Spike's bare arm ignites. This time, he shouts, "Bloody fuck!" and slams the breaks on. 

The car traveling behind us honks loudly and swerves around us, narrowly missing the back bumper. 

Once we're steady, I unbuckle my belt and reach around the seat to grab the old bath towel on the floor in the back. Tugging Spike close to me and away from the deadly light, I wrap his hurt limb in the cloth and batter down the blaze. I cough as the smell of singed flesh enters my nose and as smoke enters my lungs.

The cloud cover becomes whole once again, and greyness prevails. 

Spike hasn't said anything, and now I'm antsy for action. . . anything to have some semblance of control. "So, what should we do?" 

His voice is an almost inaudible growl, "What do you mean what should we do?" He sits up and away from me. "Open up the sodding trunk! I'm getting in it!" 

Pressing my lips together, I push a button on the key ring still dangling from the ignition. The trunk clicks open. 

Without acknowledgement, Spike pulls the blackened bath towel over his head, glances in the side mirror for passing cars, waits a moment for a blue truck to pass, slams the door almost off its hinges, and climbs into the trunk. I don't believe I've ever seen him move so fast. 

And for several minutes, I can't bring myself to move at all. 

Guilt pervades my stomach, heavy as an anchor on a ship. 

I definitely should have stayed in bed today.


	10. Tenth, Be Truthful with Other Family Members

Somehow, I find my way to the Magic Box, find an almost non-existent parking spot near the movie theater. . . without shade, of course. Seems like the closer I get to downtown Sunnydale, the brighter the sun becomes. 

I have no choice but to leave Spike in the trunk. He's quiet, so I assume he'll be okay. I'll just hurry. 

Several seconds later after running to my destination, I burst into the door of the Magic Box, bell ringing to announce my arrival. Anya doesn't bother to appear interested in my harried appearance. 

Without removing her eyes from the book she's reading by the cash register, she lifts up a slip of paper. "Giles called for you." 

"H-he did?" 

"Yep. He sounded all upset and flustered. I just reminded him that yes, his money is safe in my hands and that I am quite capable of handling the store myself. That man needs so much reassurance." She shakes her head so that her blond curls bob up and down. Licking a finger, she turns a page in whatever large volume she's reading today. 

"What else did he say?" 

She cocks her head to one side and flips a page. "That you should call him ASAP. He said he tried to call your house, too, but someone hung up on him." 

Spike answered the phone this morning. At least, I can be grateful that he merely hung up instead of speaking. Although if the Watcher's Council is behind what's going on, Giles probably already knows about Spike staying with Dawn and me. 

As I circle round the counter to reach the phone, I can't help but ask, "Anya, what *are* you reading?" 

For the first time, she notices my physical presence, and she claps the book closed. Before I can catch a glimpse of the title, the volume vanishes, and a wedding magazine appears in its place. "Nothing. Well, about weddings. What else would I be reading about?" 

"Big books about mystical stuffs?" I snag the bit of paper and dial Giles's number on the cordless receiver. 

"Well, you know that anything I read these days has to do with the wedding. I mean, it's only a couple months away!" 

"As long as I don't have to participate in any weird marriage rituals. . ." I trail off as the phone starts ringing. My heart pounds a bit. I haven't spoken to Giles since he left me. . . Sunnydale. 

"Hello?" comes a familiar voice, distant but distinctly British. 

I grasp the phone with both hands in an attempt get a better grip on my Watcher. "Giles. What's going on?" 

Anya sneaks a glance at me when she hears the desperation in my voice, and I edge toward the training room. 

"Buffy. Calm down. It's a serious situation, and it would behoove you to pay attention to what I have to say." Giles isn't giving me the reassurance I expected. 

I whisper, "Tell me the truth." 

"Buffy, the truth is that you've done some things recently of which the Council does not approve. You've been under close scrutiny since you came back. . ." 

Now I'm getting pissed, and I shut myself in the training room and begin pacing. "Close scrutiny how? You left, if I recall. *How* have they been watching me?" 

"You must understand that since your. . . return, the Council has been worried about the repercussions of your reinstatement as the Slayer." 

"What do you mean?" Wait a minute. This makes no sense to me. "Faith would still be the one. . . I mean, if Faith dies, she'll trigger the next. . ." 

"We're not sure." 

The anger flares back white hot. "*We're* not sure? Who's side are you on anyway?" Why did you leave me? "You can't just go away and not be on my side anym. . . ." 

"*Buffy,*" he interrupts, almost matching my anger. 

I’m silent, leaning against the wall beneath the wall of sunlight pouring into the training room. 

His tone softens, "I'm on your side. Always have been." 

"Huh. Tell me why it doesn't feel like that right about now." 

"I understand how you feel." I haven't heard Giles sound that tired in a while. "I do, but what you've been doing with. . ." 

I can't quite bear him to say the truth aloud just yet. "They put *cameras* in my house, Giles. They made me think they were going to take Dawn away. That's lower than the lowest of the low." I close my eyes, but tears form behind my eyelids anyway. When I open them, the liquid splashes over my cheeks, and I sniff. "I can't believe you'd let them do this to me. Not after. . ." 

"You're sleeping with Spike," he snaps out of the blue. Giles sounds almost. . . betrayed like after the time Xander caught me kissing Angel after he returned from hell. 

I almost swallow my tongue, and a cough rises up out of my lungs before I can stop the spasm. Giles says nothing and lets me finish my hacking. Finally, I manage, "I wanted to show the social workers that Dawn had a stable home life. I didn't want her to get taken away." 

"So, what the Council concluded from watching the recordings is bogus? I hardly call what you're doing at home provides her with a 'stable home life.'" 

"What do you think?" How much have you exactly seen, Giles? Out with it already. I want this awkward, disapproving-father part to be over. 

"From what I saw before I left, I would say there is something different about the way you and Spike interact. I would say that it bordered on inappropriate before I left." 

"Like I've been a state to really know *what's* going on! I barely even know which way's up right now. . . let alone what's appropriate and inappropriate. And anyway, you guys worked with him all summer. And he took care of Dawn." Even I know that last piece is stretching the limits of a sound argument. 

"And yet, none of us slept with him," he practically shouts. 

Now my rage overcomes me, and I squeeze the phone a tad too hard so that it makes a small popping sound. I'm tempted to hang up on him. "You told me that you wanted me to make decisions on my own. . . that I needed to handle things. Well, I'm doing the best I can." 

He sighs into the phone. "I know you are. I just want the best for you." 

"What's best for me is for the Council to leave me alone and stay out of my personal affairs." 

"And I want more for you than Spike. . . or Angel. . . or any vampire for that matter." 

I study the toe of my sneaker, paying careful attention to the dark smudge on the white canvas. "I know. But right now, he's helping me, and I. . . need him." I can't believe I just said that to Giles. Part of me wishes Spike was here to witness my confession. . . and part of me is very glad that he isn't. 

"You will need all the help you can get," Giles acknowledges grudgingly. 

Sliding to the floor with my knees poking into the air, I inhale. "Tell me what's going on with the Council, Giles. And why they're videoing my house." 

* * *

An hour later than I wanted, I arrive at the car. The sun is now high in the sky and brighter than ever, but the air is cooler than normal but a bit humid due to the earlier rain. We must have had a cold front, but somehow I'm numb to the change of the weather. In fact, the weather is quite low on the list of things on my mind, and I feel a bit dizzy with the news I've just received. Running my hand over the metal bumper to steady myself, I wonder if Spike is asleep. Fingering the remote in my pocket, I click open the trunk. 

For a brief instant, Spike's blue eyes blink up at me in panic, and then, I'm in the trunk beside him, my backside nestled against his hips and my back alongside his chest. I crack the trunk so that the light is a mere sliver against the black of the trunk. Spike's arms are warm from being enclosed in the small space, and I snuggle close, needing the contact after the long string of confrontations I just had. Screw my convictions; what I admitted to Giles is true. I need Spike. 

"Hey," he whispers in my ear. "Thought you were going to flambé me for a second there." 

"I like my Spike extra flavorful," I find myself teasing back. 

He pinches my behind. "I'm pretty intoxicating, huh?" 

I elbow him with a pointy bone so that he emits a small grunt. "Whatever. Maybe I could use some alcohol about now." No, not really. 

"So what are you doing here in the trunk with me?" 

"You're in a better mood," I observe. 

"That's because I'm starting to find this whole situation rather amusing. I've had time to think in the darkness of your trunk. And I discovered a spare tire, a stray tool or three, and a half-eaten granola bar covered in something sticky that smells rather like honey. A creation by the Nibblet?" 

I laugh, a little half-laugh. 

He continues, "You, on the other hand, are trying to be in a better mood, but you're really not." 

"You're right. I'm not." I'm still finding this Spike-knowing-my-thoughts thing rather disconcerting. 

"What'd Rupert tell you?" He strokes my hip as he talks, and his voice rumbles against my back, soothing me. 

"Do we have to talk about it?" I ask, implying that the information is my personal business and none of his. 

He's silent for several seconds, and I can tell he's swallowing back a myriad of emotions. "Yes, we do. I'm living in your house now. I deserve to know what the Council wants, especially if it involves the end of a pointy bit of wood for me." 

"Fine. The Council knows about us. . . ergo, Giles knows about us. . . . Is that what you wanted to hear?" I'm still reeling a bit from what I learned at the Magic Box, so it's easier to barb Spike than deal with the real issues. 

My voice is muted by the limited acoustics of the trunk, but I know I'm loud. I just hope no one is passing by the car right now. Talking trunks are unexpected and probably disturbing. . . even in Sunnydale. Don't need some passing stranger whipping up the half-open hood. 

Spike tenses behind me, and his hand freezes on my thigh. "That's not what I was asking, pet." 

"What were you. . . oh." He wants to know what the deal is with the Council. I'd much rather have to handle Spike's anger than my thoughts and feelings about the Council's motives. "They want to 'get rid of' Faith." 

"What!?" His head lifts behind mine, and I turn to view the dim outlines of his wide eyes. 

I nod to confirm although I wish I could deny the truth. How ironic for me. . . queen of ignoring the truth. Maybe I'm getting better at it, unbeknownst to me. "And if I don't do it, they will." 

His hand goes under his head to prop himself up in our limited space. "What does your Watcher say about this? And more importantly, why?" 

"Know how Willow and the others cast that spell to. . . bring me back?" There, I just said it this time. I don't have the luxury of beating around the bush now. 

"Couldn't forget, love," he touches my shoulder, urging me to keep going. 

"Well, their sources. . . their mystics, witches or whatever have sensed a change in the balance of forces here on this plane. . . whatever *that* means." I roll my eyes at this point even though Spike can't see me. "And somehow this change has something to do with me." 

"What does that have to do with killing Faith?" 

"Not killing her necessarily. . . just 'getting rid' of her. They think it will solve the 'balance' problem." 

I feel his immediate anger against my back. . . how he pulls away, and now Spike is being loud, too. "What the hell!? First, they have to define the problem and their solution. . . with a lot more clarity." 

I lower my voice so that he'll with any luck imitate it, "In the world of logical problem solving, yes." 

"I don't understand." 

I huff a little and try to elucidate what Giles explained in much more detail over the phone. "Well, I think that their idea is that because I was brought back in an unnatural way, it's like I never died in the first place." 

"What does that have to do with 'balancing the forces'?" 

I frown, trying to think how to word Giles's explanation. "Hmm. I think it's like I *never* died. . . not even the first time." 

Spike turns his head so that his lips are close enough to lightly contact my hair. "Like hitting a reset button on the whole Slayer line." 

"Exactly." 

He hits my rhythm and comes out with the next point before I can, "'Cepting now there's two active Slayers and two active lines. . ." 

"Unbalancing the forces and creating a world with two times the forces of good. . . a world that's vulnerable to evil. The Council is worried about the unstable repercussions of my return. . . which is why they've been watching me. . . er, the house." 

"The house? Why would they watch the house?" 

"Supposedly, the home of a Slayer. . . by the nature of me residing in it. . . contains a lot of mystical energy that's almost like a fingerprint to say, 'Slayer lives here.'" Like I said, I'm having a hard time buying that line of horse hooey. 

Of course, Spike corrects my incredulity with a single sentence, "Well, I can sense it. . . other vamps and demon-types can sense it. . . if they get close enough to your house." 

I turn my head slightly. "You never said anything like that before." 

"Because you never asked, pet." 

"Oh," I say to the top of the trunk. 

"And I never really thought of it before. . . at least consciously," he adds. 

His hand falls loosely over to the front of my belly, and I nudge my hand up underneath his palm. The tenderness is easier to share in the darkness. . .so far anyway, and it's easier to achieve when he's listening so intently. "Anyway, their cameras have special. . . magical sensors in them to help them assess possible changes in the house's energy." 

"Have they detected anything?" 

"Apparently so. . . hence the 'let's get rid of Faith to end the other line' plan. Because the Council can't get Faith out of prison without her consent and because they need a Slayer in the field, the Council wants to send her to another plane of existence and keep me here to man the war." 

"You don't believe them," Spike concludes. 

"Nope. Never have. . . never will. And it's not exactly fair to Faith. . . despite what she's done in the past." Spike doesn't exactly know everything Faith did to me and mine. 

For the moment, he chooses to ignore my ironic tone. "So, what's the plan?" 

"Well, we have to get to Faith before the Council does. Giles is working on a mystical way to sort out the imbalance and allow both of us to remain where we are. Some of the members of the Council skipped right to the elimination solution, and they aren't listening." 

"So, we're heading to the City of Angels then?" 

"Well, just me and the gang," I correct him. He remains motionless and nonverbal, so I keep talking, "You know. . . me and Willow and Xander." 

"What about me?" He doesn't bother to disguise his hurt. 

"I need you to watch after Dawn." I can't have you and Angel together in the same room. . . not yet. . . if ever. 

He jerks his hand away, but he can hardly move too far because there's the sun above and only so much room in the trunk. "You just don't want Angel to know about us." 

I cradle my arm up to my chest. . . have to protect myself. If I can't even admit to myself what I share with Spike, how can I even begin to express the connection to Angel. . . the one. . . "You're right. I can't have both of you in the same room. I have to focus on the mission. And plus, Giles said he might be coming eventually. I-I don't have time to run interference among all of you." 

"And we're right back to where we were last night," he retorts. 

I refuse to say anything in response because if I do, I'll be tempted to throw up the trunk lid myself and leave Spike in a pile of dust. 

The thought of him being utterly decimated shifts my thoughts. 

In my smallest, most non-Slayer voice, I whisper in echo of a past exchange to honor the truth, "Say I do want you to come. Say I *need* you to come. Can you stay out of Angel's way enough for us to get things done and get back to Sunnydale in a timely fashion?" 

"And when we get back and the cameras come down?" 

This time the silence is longer.


	11. Eleventh, Pack Lightly When Traveling

“Car’s in the drive, and our bags are packed! Xander and I have been ready to go for half an hour!” From the front door, Anya’s impatient voice echoes through the quiet hallways of Casa Summers.

I cringe. 

Dawn, Willow, Spike, and I have been keeping things on the down low, trying to be discreet for the cameras that are still up around the house. 

In our umpteenth meeting on the porch, I had explained the situation with the cameras. Dawn wanted to rip them down, but Willow and I felt that taking them down would alert the Council that something was different. The hope is that by the time they view the recordings and notice we’re gone, we’ll have enough of a head start on them. My little sister was also plenty unhappy that we were leaving her behind with Willow (of all people). However, Willow was uncertain about getting out into the field of battle too soon after her break from magic. When she offered to drop Dawn off at Tara’s dorm room to visit for the weekend, Dawn immediately perked up and actually smiled at the witch for the first time since. . . well, since what seemed like an eternity of justified resentment.

During our brief gathering, I was again almost tempted to ask Spike to stay in Sunnydale, but Spike offered no opinion on either of Dawn’s complaints. He’d been oddly quiet since the sun was low enough below the horizon for us to climb out of the trunk and drive home. Of course, I know why. He’s guilting me into letting him come along.

Giles is going to keep our plan a secret from the Council, and he suggested we bring Anya with us given her knowledge of ancient languages and alternate dimensions. She only agreed if we let her bring Xander along. Apparently, she couldn’t afford to waste a precious spare second she might have to work on wedding plans, and she required Xander’s assistance. Of course, that made keeping the truth about Spike and me from everyone even harder. 

And of course, I couldn’t tell her that, especially after she caught us in the training room at the Magic Box, and we came to our sort of uneasy truce with each of us hiding something.

At Anya’s shrill announcement, I stare up at myself in the mirror with ever-widening eyes, drop my deodorant in my makeup bag, and poke my head out from the bathroom where I’m gathering toiletry items for my stay in Los Angeles.  
Anya is climbing the stairs with Xander hot on her heels.

Xander grabs his fiancé’s arm. “*Anya,*” he says through gritted teeth. 

Anya glares at Xander but glances at me, catching my deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. “Oh. Are we supposed to be quiet?”

Emerging from the kitchen followed by an alarmed-looking Willow, Dawn crosses her unbroken arm over her cast. “Duh and double duh.”

“Sorry.” Anya winces, wrinkling her nose and stepping back. 

Small bag slung over his shoulder, Spike materializes at my back and nods. His voice is deep, a remnant of lingering hurt clinging to his tone like static. “Right. Now that the truth’s out, we’d better get going then.”

I nod and peer at him, trying to catch a flash of blue. “Let me grab my stuff, and I’m set.”

“I’ll get the luggage.” He turns away from me without making eye contact. Damn it. I don’t know why his serious demeanor is bothering me so much.

“Thanks,” I offer, almost at a whisper and catch Xander watching me as Anya rushes out the front door. 

Double damn. 

Xander clears his throat as I hurry past him. “I hope you don’t have too much stuff.”

“Why’s that?” I skip down the front steps, trailing my fingertips over the post and trying to show a bit of levity. I have to distract one of my best friends from what he’s just seen. 

Xander fidgets under my scrutiny. “Let’s just say, she brought the wedding stuff with her.”

“So?” I squint at the tinted windows of his car, trying to imagine what she’s brought.

“It’s a lot.”

“How much a lot?”

Anya steps up right in front of me and halts, hands in her back pockets. “You and Spike have the back. Sorry about the boxes. Giles told me about a bunch of books and supplies to bring with us, and since the wedding’s so close, I couldn’t leave behind the planning stuff. I don’t think it’s too tight a squeeze though.”

Great. I hurry down the front walk to the car and survey the back seat. Boxes are piled to the ceiling and two or three are spilling over onto the space at the back windshield. “Um.”

Anya hovers. “Don’t worry. There’s space in the trunk for your stuff. Xander packed all the stuff we needed in boxes. . . to help organize it. I promise it’s all stuff we need.”

“Okay. Is there a way to stack them in the middle so Spike and I have room on either side?” Not sure what I’ll do for two hours if I have to be so close to Spike in front of Xander and Anya. 

“We’ll manage the way things are. No time to rearrange now.” Spike has done the quiet vampire bit again.

“You’re right,” Xander acknowledges, no rare feat for the Xan-man. “We have to get going. Will and Dawn just pulled out.”

I was so flustered over the seating arrangements that I hadn’t even noticed they left. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my sister. Disappointment floods me. Not the first time I’ve been disappointed in myself lately. I’ll call her later. . . when we get to the hotel. 

My stomach does flip-flops.

Angel doesn’t even know we’re coming. Everything’s happening so fast. We’re just going to show up on his doorstep unannounced. He knows I’m alive. At least that won’t be a shock.

Xander takes the small overnight bags from Spike and pops the trunk. Spike didn’t have any luggage, and his stuff is intermingled with mine. But Xander doesn’t know that. 

Meanwhile, Spike swings into the back seat and presents me with a direct line into his eyes. . .eyes that are sapphire in the radiance emanating from the front porch. 

I hesitate. 

Angel may have more than one surprise on his hands. I swallow back the fire in my connection with Spike. Somehow, I can hide it in front of Xander. . . not sure how well I’ll be able to hide it in front of Angel.

“Buffy?” 

I blink at Anya’s question. 

“You coming?”

My head jerks to the right. Anya has her window rolled down, and Xander’s started the engine. 

“Yep. . . yes, I am.” 

* * *

The car rumbles over the empty highway, and for the first thirty minutes, I stare out into the black and play with the car lock. 

Up, down, up down.

Meanwhile, Spike has to continually balance the boxes that are sliding onto the floor and onto his lap. 

And Xander and Anya attempt to feign small talk with Spike and me. Mainly, Anya keeps turning the conversation back to the wedding plans. She wants to know why Spike hasn’t R.S.V.P.’d yet. 

Awkward, much?

When Spike and I barely reply, the pair in the front seat falls silent for a while, and then, they begin to chat amongst themselves in an intimacy that makes me almost envious and nostalgic at the same time. I remember a time when I had that kind of connection with someone else. . . someone *not* Spike.

I eye him surreptitiously. His blue eyes almost glow in the streetlights that are racing past. He doesn’t even take notice of me.

To my surprise, he lays his hand atop mine. At first, I flinch, and then, I realize that Anya and Xander can’t see Spike in the rearview mirror anyway. 

“Buffy,” he says softly.

“What?” I almost hiss. 

I immediately regret my reaction, but Spike forges onward, “I wanted to point something out to you before things get too. . . hectic.”

He means. . . before Angel and our mission take all of my attention from him. 

I wait for him to continue.

“You were able to stay in the trunk with me today.”

“So?”

His thumb rubs the cleft between my thumb and forefinger, and for some reason, I don’t. . . can’t pull away. 

“So, that was a huge accomplishment.”

I study his hand touching me. . . my knee against his thigh. For a moment, I feel. . . at home. . . the way I’ve only felt with Spike. . . with Angel since my return from heaven. Funny that I only find comfort from the dead.

I suck in a deep breath and meet his gaze. The corner of his mouth lifts a bit, and I remember kissing his lips. . . lips that can spew words that are harsh or. . . surprisingly gentle for someone without a soul. 

I bite my lip, and I let the corner of my mouth emulate his. “You think?”

“I know so, pet. You stayed in a dark, small place. . . not unlike a coffin.”

And I hadn’t even noticed. . . hadn’t even been afraid. “Being trapped in my own coffin is my biggest fear,” I confess without forethought. And I lived it. A bit uncomfortable with my emotions, I lay my head on Spike’s shoulder and turn my palm to face his.

He doesn’t react to my movements. “Why’s that, love?”

“Claustrophobic.” I lift my head slightly, no doubt mussing my hair. “That and there was this whole thing where a little boy got knocked out by his baseball coach, ended up in a coma, and everyone’s nightmares started manifesting. That was before you got to Sunnydale.” 

“And your nightmare came true. . . twice.”

I reposition my head against him. “Yeah. Only. . .”

He waits but when I don’t fill in the blank, he asks, “Only what?”

My ears perk. Xander and Anya are still discussing sleeping arrangements for all their family members and demon guests. 

It’s safe. “The second time was worse.” 

He laces his fingers with mine then, and I allow the gesture. 

Suddenly, the car jerks and swerves to the left. Heavy boxes half-bury Spike and me as Xander tries to compensate for the hit and wrenches the steering wheel the opposite direction. 

“What the hell?!” Xander shouts as an afterthought.

“Xander!” Anya shrieks, craning her neck around. “There’s a huge motorcycle over there. Aren’t you paying attention?”

I peer at the form. . . the hulky, big form. . . too big for the motorcycle. . . too big for the doorway. He glances at me, and I glimpse a familiar face. “It’s Mr. Helmunde!”

“Who?” Xander asks frantically. He swerves as the motorcycle races up from its fallback location to ram us again. 

“The social worker!” I clarify impatiently.

“The bloody non-social worker!” Spike adds, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“What do we do? He’s driving like a Chaos demon!” Anya hollers.

I throw a box to the ground, unclip my seatbelt, and pull my legs under me. 

“Sorry, love, Chaos demons don’t drive,” Spike corrects her. “Their antlers get in the way.”

I roll down the window, and 60-mile-an-hour drafts rush into the cab. 

“Yes, they do!” Anya insists above the roaring wind. “They prefer convertibles or cars with sunroofs.”

“Prefer a moon roof myself.” Spike and I exchange a single look, and he nods.

His hands find my waist as they have a million times before, and he holds me steady as I launch myself out of the window just as Mr. Helmunde’s motorcycle swerves toward the car again. His helmet-covered head whips toward me as I grasp his arm and yank hard. 

Mr. Helmunde’s a big man, but he’s no larger than most demons I’ve tackled. 

He struggles to stay atop the bike by attempting to drive back the other direction, but Spike’s grip on me is sure. The motorcycle scrapes the side of Xander’s car, emitting a stream of sparks, before the wheels of the bike tilt sideways under the pull of his body. The handlebars wham against Anya’s door, and she shrieks as the bike falls away and swirls off to the edge of the highway. Mr. Helmunde grunts as his body hits the car, and he brings his legs up to brace himself from being sucked beneath the car. 

“Let him go already, pet!” I barely hear Spike above the din. 

“Can’t!” My fingers slip over the slick surface of Mr. Helmunde’s windbreaker and find a foothold at the notch formed between his leather gloves and flesh. My nails dig into his skin, but he doesn’t make a sound indicative of pain. “He’s human!”

“Damn it, Buffy!” Spike’s arms encircle my abdomen, and he drags me back further into the car and into his lap. My head re-enters the interior, and I sigh with relief. 

“Stop the car.”

Xander’s head doesn’t move. “Uh uh, Buff. No way. I’ll slow down, but I won’t stop.”

“Right, then, slow down,” Spike supports me. 

Xander presses his foot down, and the brakes squeal. As soon as I sense that it’s safe enough, I grin at Mr. Helmunde and release him. He tumbles away to the safety of the shoulder, and Xander immediately accelerates.

Within moments, we’re on the way again.

My heart is pounding my chest from the exhilaration of the action. . . and if I’m honest with myself, from the headiness of Spike’s arms around me. To my surprise, he plants a gentle kiss between my shoulder blades. Shivering with a combination of desire and the rush of what just happened, I run my fingers over the top of his forearms to thank him, and he shifts me around so that we’re facing forward again.

As Spike shoves the stupid boxes back into place, Anya breaks the silence, “Well, that was interesting.”

My heart almost flies out of my mouth. What did she see?

“How so? We almost got killed!” Xander proclaims, glancing at his bride-to-be with incredulity. 

I relax. Nothing. She saw nothing.

“Well, I think it means the Council means business,” she replies, pulling down the tiny car mirror to check her hair and lipstick. 

I say nothing. She’s right. Peering at my hands in the rapidly passing lights, I study Mr. Helmunde’s blood gathered beneath my fingernails. Tears form unbidden, and I blink rapidly to force them away before anyone notices.

Spike notices. 

And he knows what the blood on my hands means to me.

He takes my hand in his, and now I don’t care if Anya or Xander looks back at us. I push my leg against Spike’s and nestle up against him. I’m suddenly very glad he came with us. 

I can deal with things as they come. That’s all I can do. 

And right now, I definitely need Spike.

Needing Spike is almost incomprehensible, but in the last few days, somehow, I have resigned myself to. . . needing him. 

Repeat-o Buffy in the house. . . er, car.

There’s also something else beyond needing him, but I’m not sure what. 

My brain hurts too much to try to understand it.


	12. Twelfth, Remember that Reunions are Awkward at First

“Damn it!” Xander grouses, glaring at the long scratch along his car door. He plunks his hands on his hips. 

A car rushes by as I lift two of the bags from the trunk and hand them to Spike. Not much traffic is out this late. “Sorry, Xand.” 

Xander shakes his head, opens the car door, and half-engulfs himself in the cab. “It’s okay, Buffy. Not your fault.”

“But wow!” Anya repeats, imitating Xander’s stance as she stares at the ruined paint job. Her toes curl over the edge of the curb where Xander parked in front of the Hyperion Hotel. “We were in a high speed chase!”

Xander backs up and must give Anya some sort of look that I can’t see because I’m emptying the trunk. Just two more bags, and unlike what Anya said earlier, some of the bags are her and Xander’s. The trunk is small. . . much smaller than the one Spike and I curled up in together, so it’s a good thing the suitcases are small.

“What?” Anya protests. “It’s not everyday that we do something this exciting, and now we’ve taken a trip. . . away from Sunnydale! Yay!” She looks around and rubs her arms. “Only I wish it wasn’t this humid. Makes my hair all frizzy. You know I didn’t have to worry about humidity when I was a demon.”

“You could help with the boxes, An, since you wanted to bring all this crap.” Xander ignores his fiancé’s tangential chatter and points to the pile as I slam the trunk closed. 

“I got a couple,” Spike offers, snagging the top two and balancing them shakily atop my rolling suitcases. 

“And if you can get these. . .” I roll the other two bags toward Anya and then, pull my hair into a bun on top of my head. “I’ll get the rest of the boxes.” 

One corner of Anya’s mouth goes down, and she shrugs, cocking her head to one side. “Okay.”

Now that we’re here. . . in Los Angeles. . . on Angel’s turf, I feel a bit discombobulated. . . disconnected from the whole situation. This can’t really be happening can it?

I bend over to pick up the huge stack of boxes left. The cardboard is already slightly damp from the humidity. But frankly, I’m glad I have them. . . a moist distraction is better than no distraction. I can focus on their weight and try not to unbalance them so that they tumble to the ground. Something inside might break. . . and ooo, then, Giles and Anya might be mad. 

I follow Anya and Xander as they trudge up the sidewalk; Spike trails behind me. I chew on my lip. 

One step at a time. 

Before anyone can even reach the front door, someone swings it open.

“Xander Harris! What are *you* doing here?”

I peek around the corner of one of the boxes, and there stands Cordelia Chase, surrounded by a warm glowing light emanating from inside the hotel. I’ve never actually been to the old hotel, but I know Angel has a history of some sort here. He told me about it once. 

“Cordy, hi, I can explain,” he begins hastily, already back in high school mode and stumbling over himself to apologize for something he doesn’t even know he did.

“Explain what?” She bursts forward from the entrance and throws her arms around him. Pulling back, she grins at him. “I’m so glad to see a Sunnydale face! I knew *some people* were coming, but I wasn’t expecting you!”

Anya clears her throat and stands with raised eyebrows at Xander. . . as if he had anything to do with Cordelia’s exuberance. 

I shift my hands under the boxes because standing so long in one place is starting to hurt my arms. Slayer strength doesn’t make the pain nerves in my skin any less sensitive to pressure. 

“I’m the face of Sunnydale?” Xander attempts to make a joke, glancing nervously at Anya. “Hear that, honey?”

“Anya,” Cordelia says a bit more flatly. 

Anya regards her coolly. 

And then, Cordelia swings her arms around the startled ex-demon. I just have to say. . . she better not hug *me* like that. “Welcome!”

“I’m Xander’s *fiancé*.”

Some of the light lifts from Cordelia’s expression. “Ohhh-kay.” She grabs Anya’s hand with a renewed glint in her eye. “Let’s see the rock!” She rolls Anya’s fingers back and forth to catch the light. “Nice job, Xander. But then, you always did have good taste. . . for a loser.” 

Xander’s mouth drops open, and then, she twists her head over her shoulder and winks at him to let him know she’s kidding.

While I’m staring at the sort-of reunion, Spike moves to remove a couple of boxes from my stack. I’m annoyed at his breakdown of my shield, but I smile at him anyway. Not quite ready to announce my presence just yet.

“Buffy!” Cordy practically shouts.

Too late.

She doesn’t move to hug me. Smart girl. “Giles tells me you’re in some sort of trouble.”

So Giles called ahead for us. I can’t *not* agree with Cordelia. “Just a bit.”

Her smile is nervous now, and I suddenly draw a blank on the last decent conversation we had since. . . homecoming. . . senior year when she loved Xander, and I was worried about beating her in the homecoming queen election. She continues, “Well, welcome to our own little Hotel California. . . just the thing to take your mind off your troubles. And oh, we have plenty of beds, too.”

Cordelia’s lips form a little “o” when she notices Spike at my side. Her eyes move from me to Spike and back again. Before she can say anything, however, a noise filters through the hotel’s double doors.

“*What* was that?” Xander asks, striding toward the door. 

Anya hurries to his side and puts her hand on his waist in a possessive gesture. “It sounded like a. . .”

“Baby!” Cordy cries as a green-skinned demon wearing a light pink suit appears in the doorway. 

We all stare at the squirming, wailing infant in the demon’s arms.

“Who’s my little Connor?” Cordy coos, going to take the baby from the demon’s arms. Immediately at her touch, the baby quiets. 

“D-did you have a baby?” Xander asks the obvious question. Unexpected jealousy tinges his next words, “Who’s the dad?”

She throws her head back then and laughs. The baby focuses on her. I wonder if he understands what she’s doing. I know we’re all wondering. She continues, “Hardly. Baby’s not mine, silly. He’s. . .”

“Mine.” 

And suddenly, he’s here. . . the owner of the voice. . . Angel. He fills the doorway, and I’m once again surprised by how large his form appears to me since I came back from heaven. 

But still, his face is the same. . . he bears the same dark eyes that stir something inside me that no one else ever has. . . ever will. . . and yet. . . 

There’s a baby?!? And Angel’s the father?

“So, how’d you manage that? Last I checked, your swimmers weren’t up to the challenge being dead and all,” Spike’s icy sarcasm curls up from behind me. I realize that I haven’t heard that tone in his voice in quite some time. . . not since. . . well, that time we brought the building down around us. 

“Hello, Spike,” Angel says as if he knew Spike was there all along. I barely catch the fleeting surprise in his expression as his eyes land briefly on me before flitting back to Spike. “I knew that you were working with Buffy. Didn’t think you’d bother to tag along.”

He takes a step forward, almost standing in my path. I frown a little. “Yeah, well, she asked me to.”

“Since when does Buffy ask *you* to do anything?” Angel looms over his grandchilde. 

“Since I took care of her little sister and patrolled with the bloody. . .” Spike gestures at a wide-eyed Xander and Anya, trying to figure out what to call them, “. . . Scoobies all summer long!” 

Angel crosses his arms in disdain. “That’s not the way I heard it. In fact, last I heard, you were a washed-up vampire with a chip in his head. More of an annoyance than a threat.” He keeps staring at Spike but addresses me, “Isn’t that right, Buffy?”

Spike turns dark blue eyes on me. “You called me washed-up?” And he sounds a little hurt. . . not the kind of hurt from our more recent conversations but. . . 

“No. . . well, I. . .” Damn them both! I swallow and draw on inner Slayer Buffy, which isn’t something I’ve felt like doing in quite a while. Let’s just say the two of them bring it out in me. “Before this argument goes *any* further and winds up having a dusty ending, let’s get inside out of this. . .”

“Sticky, miserable humidity?” Cordelia fills in for me, bouncing the baby on her hip.

“Thanks, Cordelia. We have to catch up on our mission, *and* I want to get some sleep sometime tonight.” And I want an explanation about this baby thing. How is it possible? Who’s the mother? Jealousy tightens in my stomach, and I try to batten it down. Not quite yet, Buff. Hang in there.

That said, I breeze past the two seething vampires and past the green demon, who must be Lorne, and stomp into the hotel. 

* * *

“Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Dawn’s voice sounds tiny and distant on the phone even though she’s only two hours away. She thankfully sounds less angry than earlier.

I clutch the receiver and press the plastic closer to my ear as if I can bring her into the room with me. “Are you *sure* you’re cool with staying at Willow’s parents’ house?” 

“Sure I’m sure! Now, tell me more about Angel’s baby. . . and is Spike there with you?”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. Now that she knows we’re safe and that we’re set on the plan to get to Faith, she wants to gossip, and I know she won’t let me get off the phone until I give her a little bit of information that she can lord over Willow and Tara. So, I start to pull off my shoes. “The baby is. . . handsome. . .” 

“Does he look more like Darla or Angel?”

I think for a second as I arrange my boots near the nightstand, beneath the only light that’s on in the small suite. “Hmmm. I would say Angel. But then, I never spent a lot of time with Darla, so I wouldn’t know.” 

I swing my legs up, prop up a pillow and lean back. The pillow feels good. I’m more tired than I realized. And if I focus on my body, I forget the multitude of feelings I so haven’t been processing in the last few days. 

And so, I go on about Angel’s baby, “He’s very cute. . . and very tiny. . . and everyone dotes over him. I got to hold him. He’s all soft and warm and wriggly. And he’s most definitely alive.”

“Awww. You have to take a picture. And Darla staked herself. . . really?”

Through half-lidded eyes, I view Spike lounging in the doorway, watching me. His expression is neutral. 

I’m suddenly more awake. Gotta keep on my toes around here. “I’ll be sure to pick up one of those disposable cameras if I get a chance. She really did. . . in an alley in the rain. And now too many baddies to count are after the baby, including some guy named Holtz who, get this, is from a couple hundred years ago.”

“Wow. I miss all the good stuff. Sure I can’t take a bus up there tomorrow morning?” She’s hopeful. Time to dash her hopes once again.

“Um, no. You have school.” I twirl the cord around my finger.

“Ugh. School.”

Pulling my suitcase along behind him, Spike enters the room and sits at the end of the bed. He props the case up. Picking up one of my feet, he begins to massage the muscles, and I almost groan at his touch. 

“But I *promise* to keep you updated. How’s that?” Blinking and remembering where I am, I pull away, drawing my feet back. 

“Okay.” She’s reluctantly placated. That’s a relief. Don’t need little sister coming to help. I have enough to worry about.

Spike pouts for a second at my rejection but then, decides to get up and wander around the room. . . my room.

I keep my eyes on him and ask Dawn, “You being good? Not, you know, stealing stuff?” 

Running two fingers behind the curtain and looking out into the night, Spike snorts at my question.

Of course, Dawn hears him. “Is someone there with you? Is it Spike?”

Part of me can’t believe she hasn’t asked more about what she saw in my bedroom this morning, and part of me is relieved. 

I sigh. “Yes, he’s here.”

“Can I talk with him?”

“Fine.” I thrust the phone at Spike. 

A grin is born on his face that could break hearts, and he eagerly takes the receiver. “Dawn!” He’s quiet for several seconds, listening. 

Nonchalantly trying not to eavesdrop, I tug the suitcase atop the bed and unzip it. Flipping the lid open, I stare. Spike obviously packed the bag. . . not that everything is messy. . . far from it. My clothes are neatly folded on top of one another, and there’s an extra pair of boots wrapped in plastic to avoid soiling my clothing. He also added my spare bag of Slaying goodies. . . looks kind of like a doctor’s bag, only it’s a bag of death for vampires. 

No, none of that disturbs me.

The part that takes me back a notch and lands me on my bottom is *his* clothing in a neat pile next to mine. 

I mean, I sort of knew this would be the case, but actually seeing it is something entirely different. And I’m not as appalled as I thought I’d be. . . after all, I didn’t pack the bag. He did, and his actions go along with my expectation of what he wants from me. I just know that at this point, I can’t give back. . . not the way he would prefer. 

I run my now clean fingers lightly over the dark fabric of his shirt. . . his jeans. For some reason, I feel sad, and I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because I realize that I can’t give him what he needs. . . 

But he can’t give me what I need either.

Can he? Can I?

“Buffy?” he asks, my name a gentle question on his lips. . . a demon’s lips.

Green meets blue in a flash, and I blink. To my surprise, there are tears on my cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Where are you sleeping?” I answer his question with a question. “Tonight.”

He straightens a little, putting distance between him and me. “Angel says my room’s one floor up, but I managed to finagle a trade with demon girl.”

I frown. “Anya?”

“Who else?”

“Well, could be Fred.” There’s more than one girl around this hotel. . . and honestly, I’m not sure if Fred has any demon in her or not. After all, she did do that five-year stay in Pylea. Hell’s gotta do something to a girl. I mean, look at me, I came back from heaven, and everything’s all wrong. . . I’m wrong. . . at least partially. 

I don’t respond further, so he grabs his clothes from the suitcase and heads for the door. “I’ll be next door if you need me.”

He’s out of the room before I call, “Stay.”

Spike has vampire hearing. “What?”

I swallow. “Never mind.”

“All right, pet. As you say.” This time, he doesn’t even bother to sound tired.

And then, I’m alone.


	13. Thirteenth, Exercise Caution When Getting Up in the Middle of the Night

“Can’t sleep?”

I almost jump out of my skin, and I don’t startle easily. The slender, dark-haired girl, Fred, stands in front of me with a huge stack of books in her skinny arms. Glasses perch on the edge of her nose. 

“I, uh, . . . no,” I admit. Gah. Real smooth, Buffy. 

“What are you lookin’ for? Is there somethin’ I can help you find?” Her Texas accent is cute and perky. Not what I’d expect for someone who lived in a hell dimension for five years and not what I’d expect so late at night. 

I try to shake off the remnants of the nightmare I just had and glance up and down the dimly lit hallway, trying to steady my thoughts. “No. Well, the bathroom.”

Fred smiles and nods in the opposite direction from where I’d been going. “It’s that-a-way.”

I return her courteous expression. “Thanks. What are you doing up so late?”

She blushes. “Well, Anya, she wanted me to do some research for her. She’s been workin’ hard on this project, see, and we got to talkin’ about it. And,” she shrugs, “I can’t sleep once I start thinkin’ about somethin’, so I thought I’d go downstairs to do some readin’.” She leans toward me as if she wants to tell me a secret. “I have trouble sleepin’ sometimes.”

I totally understand the feeling. “Me, too.”

She nods, and I think she knows more about my situation than I realized. Either Angel shared a little, or this slender woman is perceptive. “They say it isn’t good to do anything but sleep in your bed and well, have sex, but I haven’t been havin’ any of that lately. Not for years really.” She keeps going as if embarrassed by her slip, “And, hey. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” Her room must be nearby. I was so caught up in my own head that I didn’t even notice her in the hall. Not a good sign for a Slayer. Then, it dawns on me what she’s said just a few seconds earlier. “Project for Anya?”

“Yeah. Didn’t she tell you about it?” Fred seems genuinely confused as if I should know everything about Anya because we sort of work together. 

“No, she didn’t. Is it for the wedding?” My thoughts flash to the last two times I’ve seen Anya. She’s had her nose buried in some dusty old book. I make a mental note to ask her about it in a more earnest way. . . but not tonight, of course. 

Fred frowns a little. “No. But she did show me her weddin’ scrapbook earlier!”

I laugh in spite of myself. “I’ve seen it. Can you believe the wedding hasn’t even happened yet and she already has a scrapbook going?”

Fred giggles and sighs. “Nope. Although, it was nice to look at. Gave me some ideas for my own someday.”

“Got anyone in mind?”

“Not lately.” She hesitates as if she isn’t sure whether to ask a question. Then, she comes out with, “It isn’t too awkward, is it? I mean, seein’ Angel again what with the baby and all?”

I can’t help but be honest with her. “Yeah. It’s a little awkward.” How to explain my bond with Angel without making her think I can’t let go? “But Angel and I have an understanding.”

She waits for me to explain.

So, I do, even if my words are inadequate, “We each live our own lives, but our connection. . . it’s something. . . it’ll always be there.” 

She stares at me as if she thinks I’m leaving something out. I wonder what. Before I can ask her, one of the books on the top of her stack tumbles to the ground. 

“Need some help?” I offer, bending down to pick up the book for her.

“Nah. I got them.” She places the book on top of her pile and starts to head toward the stairs.

I decide to take a chance. “Fred?”

“Yeah?” She glances back over her shoulder at me.

“Where is everyone staying?” I can’t believe I just asked her that.

“What do you mean?”

I fidget a bit. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to walk in on anyone’s room on accident.”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes like she’s mentally kicking herself. “Oh, I guess I didn’t explain very well about the bathroom. Last door on the right. That way. And everyone’s on this floor except Angel. He has his own room on another floor. And well, Cordy, Charles, and Wes don’t live here.”

“Thanks.” Well, that rules out one door. 

“You’re welcome. See you in the mornin’.”

* * *

After careful consideration, I decide that Spike’s in the room with the unlocked door. 

That would make sense, right? 

Right. 

I nod but only to myself. Gotta convince myself that following my instincts to seek Spike are somehow a good thing. 

Uh huh.

I step into the darkness, leaving the door slightly cracked. All the easier to flee if I need to. The shadows enfold me in their willing embrace, but enough light remains for my eyes to detect the outline of the bed along the back wall of the small hotel room. My toes sink into the thick carpet, and I keep my focus on my destination. 

I have to talk with him. . . especially after. . . 

He groans quietly and turns in his sleep, rustling the sheets.

I frown uncertainly but chalk my hesitancy up to my concerns about being caught. . . caught with Spike. . . caught by Angel with Spike. I make it to the bed without falling over or tripping over anything. Guess I’m pretty good at maneuvering in the dark without being able to see. Slayer intuition. . . good for walking through the graveyard. . . or if there’s a power outage in the house. 

I settle onto the cushioned surface and before I can lose my nerve, I start, “I-I had a nightmare. . . and I-I needed to talk. . . to explain. . . .” I really just want to be held and reassured that he isn’t completely fed up with me.

Reaching out to touch him, my fingers encounter only the comforter. He is farther away than I realized. “Are you asleep?” 

Nothing.

He’s going to make things hard on me. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised after my behavior the last few days. . . well, the last several weeks. Maybe I could apologize? Hmm. . . I’m not good at saying I’m sorry. . . never have been. I can always try. . . 

“I-I’m. . .” I swallow, “sorry about my behavior earlier tonight.”

Still nothing. 

This silence is getting eerie. Spike generally has *something* to say about everything. Anger stomps its way into my stomach. . . as well as a little bit of fear. 

His non-responsiveness makes me babble. Babbling Buffy is not a good thing. 

“Well, I think the reason I got so weird. . . is seeing Angel. . . Angel with a baby. . . Angel with a baby whose mother is Darla. I mean, I just saw him what. . . not very long ago, and he didn’t tell me anything about a baby. . . or sex with Darla. Not that it’s any of my business who Angel sleeps with, but you know, old boyfriend and all. . . it’s kind of. . . ” I pause and take a deep breath. This is not the direction to take to make Spike feel less hurt or angry with me. Old boyfriends are something to talk about with the girlfriends. . . but not Spike. “Everything’s changing so fast. I-it’s hard for me to process it all, I think. And then. . . there’s you. . . us. I don’t understand it at all. You’re supposed to be evil, a-and you’re the only one who’s really been there for me since I came back. . . you’re the only one I can talk to. . . . And I wonder, is it wrong to trust you?”

The bed sheets rustle, and a voice rises from the darkness. . . a voice that is definitely not Spike’s, “Well, sugarplum, unless we’ve had a rendezvous that I was too intoxicated to remember, I don’t believe I’ve ever met you before tonight. . . and unless you've spoken with my mother, I don’t believe there’s anyone. . . in this dimension or in Pylea who would call me ‘evil.’”

Pushing away from the bed, I flick on the bedside lamp and stare at the demon on the bed, eyes blinking away the blinding light. My mind races back over what I’ve just revealed to the green demon, and for some reason, I can’t recall a word of it. Just great.

Lorne cocks his head to one side and waves a green hand in front of my face. “Buffy? You okay, girl?” He glances down at himself and pulls the navy blue bed covers up over his bare green chest as if the sight of his oddly-colored flesh would shock a Slayer. “Sorry about that. Must have been a shock. . . on more than one level.”

I shake my head. “No.” I want to run out of the room, but somehow my feet have become glued to the carpet. I have to remember to tell Cordelia that the doors in this hotel need better labeling. . . signs that read, “Bathroom and Lorne’s room” to be specific. 

We stare at each other for a minute.

Then, we start together, “Look, I didn’t mean. . .” “I’m sorry for. . .”

Laughter is exchanged, and I find myself warming to the green-skinned guy. . . what is it with me liking demons these days? Clem. . . Lorne. . . 

That’s it. Spike’s corrupted me.

How will I ever slay again?

“You go first,” Lorne insists.

“What you heard. . .”

“I won’t tell a soul.” He draws a little “x” across his chest. “Cross my. . . well, that’s not where my heart is, but you know what I mean.”

“Especially not Angel.”

“No, no. Of course not. Call me your friendly neighborhood bartender slash club owner slash karaoke singer. I hear lots of stories. . . direct from the heart. And unless someone’s in danger, I have a strict confidentiality policy.”

My thoughts are jumbled with regard to Cordelia’s introductions tonight. She said something about Lorne. . . “You read people’s songs!”

He chuckles at my outburst. “You’re right, chickadee.”

My eyes narrow. “How does that work?”

He shrugs. “I hear snippets of melody, and the truth. . . good or bad just comes to me. Not sure myself how it works.”

“So someone sings for you, and you what? Give them a reading about their future?”

“Kind of. It’s a little more complicated than that. Depends on the person. . . depends on the nature of their future. Sometimes a person only has to hum a few notes, and I know. . . their future is laid out like a clear path through a forest with a sunbeam lighting the way. Other times, they can sing a whole song, and I only get vague impressions. Haven’t really figured out why it works one way or another with different people. Guess that’s what I have a lifetime for.”

Oh shit. “And when I was humming to the baby tonight. . . ?”

He surveys me for several seconds. “Do you want to know?”

I swallow. Do I? “Yes.” 

Something shifts in his expression as if he’s donning his professional hat. . . even half-naked in bed. Then, he opens his mouth and utters something I never thought he’d be able to come up with, “You’ve been through hell lately. . . literally. You were taken out of heaven by your gang of friends, and now here. . . this dimension. . . it’s been like hell for you.”

My heart is in my throat, and tears are in my eyes. I lean forward to balance myself on the side of the mattress. “H-how did you know?” Hot liquid spills over my lower lashes. “Did Angel tell you?”

“Angel? He knows?”

“Don’t play games with me,” I half-growl. Don’t care if I’m a guest here. I can’t fathom another betrayal from Angel. I close my eyes. I hadn’t really thought of the appearance of Connor as a “betrayal” until this moment. Guess the whole baby thing made me more angry and jealous than I wanted to believe. . . more than what I revealed to Fred and Dawn anyway.

Rattled—yes; jealous—no. 

Yeah right. I’m definitely not convincing myself.

A hand touches my lower back. “Hun? I didn’t know a whit of that until you filled my ears with a bit of melody.”

Somehow, I’m comforted, and a smile toys with the corners of my mouth. “Sorry that you got an earful. From now on, I’ll watch the song thing.” 

“Don’t lose hope. Keep going. You’ll make it through all the. . . re-experiencing if you don’t give up. That’s the only advice I’ll give you. You got a bit of an independent streak, and I don’t want to tangle with that.”

Laughter pushes past my smile. Then, I remember something. I shift to the left to look at Lorne over my shoulder. “I heard Spike singing to Connor under his breath when he thought no one was looking.” 

Spike had snuck away from the back of our little group when we were all listening to Wesley go on about the plan to get to Faith before the Council did. Spike had peered over the edge of the baby’s crib, uncrossed one of his arms, and touched the child with an almost reverent tenderness, singing almost imperceptibly. I’d glanced at Angel in alarm and caught my ex staring at my. . . whatever Spike is to me. Angel’s face was unreadable, but he didn’t stop his grandchilde. . . just watched him like a hawk.

Lorne answers my question before I ask it, “I heard.”

“Well?” I ask, almost too eagerly.

“I’m sorry, little one, but I don’t believe that I can reveal his personal reading to you.” 

Disappointment washes over me. “Why not?”

He repeats what he said earlier, “I know it’s my own rule, but I don’t reveal anyone’s destiny unless someone’s in danger.”

I take several seconds to digest what he’s telling me. “So. . .”

The green demon nods once as if to say, that’s all you’re going to get. Then, he adds, “You’re not in any danger from the bleached wonder. No one and nothing is in danger of being harmed by him. . . except maybe his own heart.”

“What do you mean?” Spike could hurt his own heart? 

“I mean what I mean, princess.”

Oh, he means Spike could get hurt. I lower my head and study my fingers splayed against the comforter. 

Then, I stand and meet Lorne’s gaze. “Thank you. And sorry to have disturbed you.” Funny how easily an apology rolls off my tongue to this particular demon.

The doorknob is cool when I touch the metal, and it takes my travel time from the bed to the doorway for Lorne to call after me.

“Buffy?”

I turn around expectantly.

And I’m not let down by his next words, “Love is not restricted to humanity, you know. . . or those with souls.”

I’m uncertain how to respond to that, so I just wait.

“He loves you.”

I’m too afraid to question Lorne about the meaning of his words. Hell, I even scare myself when two more words pass over my lips, “I know.”

The knob turns, and I cross the threshold. 

“And Buffy?”

“Hmm?”

“He’s down the hall. Third room on the left.”

* * *

As soon as Spike opens the door in response to my knock, I launch myself into his arms. He gives me a little grunt to know that he’s surprised and probably still half-asleep.

He reaches behind his neck, pulls on my wrists and gently pushes me back. “What’s this?”

“N-nothing.”

“*Buffy.*”

I’m so glad he called me by my name that I start the speech I practiced on the short walk from Lorne’s door to his, “Here’s the deal.”

He watches me with a bemused expression on his face.

“I’m sorry about earlier. Had another ‘bloody’ nightmare. And I need a place to hang my hat for the night. Got room in your bed?”

A kaleidoscope of emotions play across his features, and then, his fingers fold over mine. “You know that I always have room for you, pet.”

I close my eyes in relief as he sweeps me into his small sanctuary away from the rest of what is distinctly Angel’s territory. 

And for the moment, I’m safe.

I’ll ask questions tomorrow.


	14. Fourteenth, Infuse Each Day with a Positive Attitude

I kiss Spike’s knuckles as I extricate myself from his embrace.

Okay, so his hold on me is kind of tight, and I’m too restless to stay in bed any longer. I feel guilty for leaving him before he wakes up, but I don’t want to roll around and wake him. I wouldn’t have cared before, but Lorne’s big reveal makes me more conscious of how I treat Spike. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.

Taking care not to bounce, I push myself to the edge of the king-sized mattress, and just when I think I’m free. . . 

“Where you going so fast?” His hand grips my wrist like a vice.

Resisting the urge to jerk away, I glance back at him. A sliver of moonlight from the misaligned curtain illuminates half his face, accentuating his cheekbones. The borrowed light also hints at the outline of his bare chest. He looks so vulnerable. I’m grateful that I can’t see his eyes. . . can’t view how deep that vulnerability runs.

Then, I might have to admit to how vulnerable I feel around him.

“Downstairs. I’m just going downstairs,” I whisper.

“What time is it?” He twists his head, searching for the clock.

My view is easier. “Six-thirty.”

“Early riser, eh, pet?” He lets go of my arm, but I can still feel where his cool fingers pressed into my flesh.

“Yeah.”

“Any more nightmares?”

I want to tell him that he held me too close for me to have any. I was safe. But instead, I say, “No. No more nightmares.”

“Good.” He sounds satisfied as if he’s accomplished something. 

I fumble for my slippers, legs angling back onto the bed. Finding my targets, I slip them over my feet. Reluctant to switch on the lamp to avoid the blinding light. . . or Spike, I tidy my hair with my fingers and hope I’ll look presentable enough for parading in front of a bunch of strangers in my pajamas. 

Well, they’re not strangers exactly, but everything feels foreign to me these days.

“Why don’t you come back to bed for a few?” he asks, trying to act nonchalant. He’s testing me.

“I want to,” I admit before I can stop my tongue.

“But. . . ?” His finger traces over my spine, sending goose bumps flying over my arms.

“Not right now, Spike,” I protest, my voice coming out more annoyed than I planned.

Without warning, his arm circles my waist and pulls me flush against his pelvis, his desire evident against my tailbone. My eyes slip closed, and a moan escapes from my lips as his hand explores and teases my body. His chest presses solidly against mine as he sits up, and his mouth finds my shoulder, spreading soft kisses up my neck to my earlobe. 

He nips my ear and whispers, “C’mon, love. You know how much I want you, and if you admit it, you want me.” His hand plunges downward, sending shockwaves through my body. “I can feel it.”

“Don’t touch me!” bursts out of me. At my reaction, his arms loosen and allow me to hurtle forward. Shaking a little at my own eruption, I face him, taking in the mirrored shock on his face. Guess I’m not quite ready to accept Lorne’s words as truth.

“R-right,” he manages, revealing how shaken he is.

“I-I’m sorry.” I stand before him awkwardly, not sure what to do next. “But I have to go.”

“It’s cause Angel’s in the house, right, pet?” His hurt is evident, but his tone tells me that he’s resigned to the answer as if it’s accepted fact. 

“No,” I say emphatically, but I can’t help but think about all the tender moments we recently shared in Sunnydale when the cameras forced us to face each other. I wonder what life would be like if Dawn, Spike, and I were a family. . . if I allowed myself to push past the nightmares and live again.

Unwilling to allow that particular musing too much airtime in my brain, I turn on my heel and leave him behind.

As I exit, I barely catch his reply, “Now why don’t I believe you?”

Because I’ve given you no reason to believe me?

* * *

“We need to talk.”

Angel greets me outside Spike’s room, arms crossed and glower plastered on his face. For some reason, Angel’s expression almost makes me giggle.

What the hell is it with the vampires in this hotel? I can’t escape them. I’d almost take the cameras in my house over this. Almost. 

And I almost ask what he wants to talk about, but instead, I evade. Boy, I’m getting good at that. Not that I wasn’t already an expert. “No, we don’t. Not unless it’s about the mission.”

Shoulders back even in my pajamas, I breeze past him, aiming for the main staircase that dropped down into the hotel lobby. 

Before I can blink, Angel does his super-speedy Superman imitation and ends up at the top of the stairs in front of me. He never did that in Sunnydale. Must be something in the water in L.A.

“Buffy.”

I cross my arms and decide to confront the issue head on. It isn’t like I can avoid everyone, and this is Angel’s house after all. “It’s about Spike, right? Well, like I said before, he’s been helping all summer, and he took care of Dawn. . . kept her safe.” 

Spike keeps me safe, too, but I can’t tell Angel that. 

“It’s more than that. I can. . .” Angel’s expression is one of someone who doesn’t want to spell out what he knows.

Blood flames hot in my cheeks, and my gaze falls to a strip of peeling wallpaper behind Angel. “Oh. I-it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Angel whispers, face hovering dangerously close to mine. “He’s dangerous. He’s evil. He’s got no soul.”

My response is immediate. “And that’s nothing I don’t already know.”

After what Spike alluded about Angelus torturing his victims, I’m seeing Angel in a new light. . . not that Angel is responsible for what Angelus did. Okay, so I can almost picture Spike rolling his eyes at my line of thinking. What had he said? 

Even soulless demons can make choices.

I shake my head in a vain effort to erase the confusing thoughts. I take a step around Angel, and his arm goes up in front of me. Anger shoots through me, but am I angry at him or me for letting this situation even come about?

“Knowing the truth doesn’t mean it makes it any safer that you’re. . . with him.” Angel looks as if he’s swallowed a mouthful of holy water.

“No, it doesn’t, but you don’t have a say anymore.” But he does, and I know it. He’ll always be an influence in my life. First loves are like that.

Angel doesn’t even have the decency to seem hurt. Instead, he fires back, “And you don’t have a say in mine.” The blaze dies down almost immediately. “We’ve covered this territory, haven’t we?”

Anger dissipates in the levity of amusement. “Uh huh.” I nod. “Little bit.”

His rich brown eyes crinkle in the corners as the barest hint of a smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “And you know what I’m going to say no matter whom you date, right?”

“I’m not. . .” No use denying it. I study my interlaced arms for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “Right. You’re going to tell me to be careful and that if anything happens to me, you’ll kick his ass.”

“You got it. Except in the case of Spike. He’ll be dust. ‘Course if he isn’t careful, he’ll end up dust before he does anything to hurt you or any one of yours.”

“I have a feeling that if everyone else finds out about me and Sp. . . this, you know, you’ll have to get in line for the dusting part.” I narrow my eyes at Angel. “You’re taking this awfully well.” Too well. Something tells me. . . 

“So. Connor,” Angel mentions, trying to sound casual. 

Yep. I’m right.

“You have a son. With Darla. How did that happen? Well, I know how it happened but. . .” I try to keep my tone even. Angel’s behaved himself about Spike. . . is letting me make my own decisions no matter how foolish they might be. I’m determined to try in return.

“She and I. . . we. . .”

I suck in a breath. He has hardly said anything and here I am nervous as all hell and unsure if I can hear this. Talk about Buffy having a double standard. “But I thought she was a vampire.”

“She is. . . was. When we. . . Connor was conceived last year when she was a vampire again. When things were. . . kind of like how they are for you since. . .”

“You felt like you were pulled out of heaven?” It’s the first time I’ve actually said the exact words aloud to Angel. He knew, I think, from things I hinted at last fall, but I was never this blunt. 

The pain in his eyes confirms my suspicions, and I can’t help but reach up and caress his cool cheek to let him know how much I understand. I know the lines of his face so well that I can trace them with my heart, but now, for some reason, Angel feels almost foreign to me. Blinking, I draw my hand away even as he turns his face into my palm.

“He’s beautiful.” Angel’s eyes are glazed in confusion and a bit of hurt, so I explain myself, “Connor’s beautiful.”

He stares at me a moment. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

The sound of a throat clearing disrupts the reverie between Angel and me, and my heart jumps in my chest. My eyes fly around to crash into a sea of blue. . . a sea that’s churning with hurt, anger, and envy. 

“Sorry to interrupt the cozy little reunion you got going. Just wanted you to know that I was going downstairs.” Spike breaks eye contact with me and gives Angel a pointed look. “Wouldn’t want you to think I snuck out of my room and was wanderin’ about the hotel doing something evil.” He waves both hands in a little gesture to emphasize the “evil” part.

Spike descends the stairs without a backward glance. I search for a hint that he understands what Angel and I are doing together in the hallway but come up with nothing. 

And Angel seems miffed that I’m taking such an interest in Spike’s backside.

Damn it. All I’m doing is hurting everyone.

* * *

I can’t stop staring at Spike’s scuffed black boots on the desktop. 

They’re propped up right next to the computer monitor and on top of a pile of papers, and every once and awhile, the top one twitches a little. 

He hasn’t looked at me. . . or anyone since Angel and I came downstairs. That’s probably why no one’s asked him to move his feet off the furniture. Or maybe it’s the scowl on his face. That did it for me anyway.

“Buffy, what do you think?”

Oh, crap. I’m daydreaming again. . . about Spike, which is apparently becoming a very bad habit. What’s Wesley talking about? The ex-Watcher is watching me with an expectant look on his stubble-lined face. Wesley isn’t supposed to have stubble. Guess stubble comes with staying up all night doing research. 

“About the plan to break Faith out of prison,” he adds.

“Um.” I know they’ve been talking about the spell that needs to be done after Faith is extricated from prison, but now they’ve switched topics on me. When did that happen?

Everyone is staring at me. . . well, except for Angel who’s standing at my elbow and Cordy who’s feeding baby Connor a bottle and smiling at him. Spike lifts an eyebrow at me.

“The chain bus thing might work,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

Spike knows I haven’t been listening. He smirks, twirling a pen between his fingers in place of the cigarette Angel won’t let him smoke around the baby. Not that he’s been smoking much anyway since we didn’t buy him those cigarettes at the store. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Gunn says, leaning over the papers on the desk. “If we go the chain bus route, we’ll take the girls here, dress them up like inmates, shackle their hands and feet, round them up in the bus we’re gonna steal, and drive them up to the prison in broad daylight?”

“Yes, we will,” Cordy singsongs in her baby-appropriate, too happy voice. “And then, while us girls cause a commotion, fighting the guards, Buffy will grab the keys and find Faith, using the handy-dandy blueprints Uncle Wesley found on the internet last night.”

“I like this plan already,” Gunn says with a satisfied grin and a clap-and-rub of his hands. “Can I be one of the guards?”

“Actually,” Wesley interjects, picking up Spike’s feet and pulling out a stack of computer printouts, “they prefer to be called ‘officers.’ And you and I are not going to start any riots.”

“Damn,” Gunn mutters in disappointment as he leans against the doorframe. He and Fred exchange a quick grin.

Wesley seems slightly annoyed by Gunn, but the annoyance disappears as he smoothes the prison blueprints over the desktop. “What we *will* be doing is using these.” He tosses the set of papers atop the blueprints. “And these fake inmate profiles to get you into the prison.”

“But isn’t the whole goal getting into the prison and then out again?” Anya asks, chewing on a straw leftover from her iced mocha. 

Actually, I’m wondering the same thing. I peer at the papers with skepticism.

Emitting a small impatient sigh, Wesley continues, “If you’d let me finish.”

“Sorry, Mr. Grouchy Pants,” Anya grumbles. 

“He gets like that when he hasn’t had much sleep,” Fred commiserates with the ex-demon, wrinkling her nose in sympathy. She has rings around her eyes like she hasn’t gotten much sleep either, but she’s obviously in better spirits than Wesley.

Wesley ignores both of them. “And yes, that is the purpose of the *fake* profiles. We’re going to try and admit Anya, Cordy, and Fred first. Gunn and Buffy will put the admitting officers to sleep. After they’re asleep, I’ll break into the computer system and adjust the security cameras to show a continuous loop of the same empty hallways. They’ll have keys. That’ll give us a chance to get inside.”

Licking a bit of pastry out of the corner of his mouth, Xander half raises his hand. “What’ll I be doing?”

“You’ll be watching out for other officers.”

Xander nods. “Can do.”

Connor emits a tiny belch as Cordy rubs his tiny back.

“So, we’ll get in and out without anyone noticing? How will we get by the other officers on the. . . ?” I’m not sure what to call the cells.

“The pods,” Wesley fills in for me, sweeping aside the fake profiles and pointing at the names of the different branches of the prison. “Faith is on this pod. We get in, get her, and get out in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m guessing the undead members of this little operation won’t be in attendance.” Spike finally lowers his feet to the floor and leans forward with his forearms on his thighs. 

“Or the resident singers of the demon variety,” pipes Lorne who has been the silent sardine in the school of planning. 

“I really think that’s for the best,” Angel admits, taking Connor from a stretching Cordy. 

Angel and Cordy share a quiet moment. . . one that only lasts a few seconds, but jealousy rears its ugly head in my chest. I swallow, remembering my words to him earlier.

I sneak a glance at Spike who’s looking up at me. His eyes are dark with a swirl of emotions. Mirrored hurt and jealousy is present. . . 

And something akin to complete understanding. 

Spike understands my jealousy of the connection between Angel and Cordy. Then, I remember Angelus and Drusilla, and Spike’s offer of help to end the impending apocalypse so that he might regain his standing with his love.

And now. . . there’s my connection with Angel standing in his way yet again.

My heart aches to see such perception in Spike’s, for the moment, far from soulless eyes. With that recognition, I’m surprised to discover that I long to reach out and touch him. . . to offer him the peace he’s offered me so many times of late. 

I blink as the hustle and bustle around us is renewed. . . as Wesley carries on with laying plans for retrieving Faith. The talk has turned to the stealing of objects, such as buses and prison outfits. Dawn would appreciate the topic.

When my attention refocuses, Spike is gone, and I’m left alone with the knowledge that something is changing in me.

I frown. I want to go back to Sunnydale. Things were simpler there. 

Now where did my positive attitude go?


	15. Fifteenth, Learn from the Neighbors

Spike didn’t tell me goodbye. 

He didn’t even show up to say good luck on our mission to retrieve Faith, and this has resulted in bitchy Buffy. . . bitchy Buffy with a pit in her stomach.

I can’t put my finger on exactly why I feel this way.

So far, I’ve been successful at channeling my irritability in a productive way. The officers at the women’s penitentiary had no trouble believing I was the transferring inmate the papers claimed I was, and I was grumpy enough to make up for Fred’s meekness and Anya’s tendency to over-act and say the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

Wesley has rigged the cameras, all the officers in our direct route are unconscious, and Xander, Gunn, and I have successfully navigated the stark, white tangle of hallways. 

The heavy, paint-chipped door slides away, revealing the bowels of our destination. Swallowing, I take a tentative step onto the prison pod where, according to Wesley, Faith is located. The stale air is warm and ripe with body odor and sweat.

Hovering behind me, Xander and Gunn poke their heads over the threshold. Gunn follows once he sees that some unseen mystical force hasn’t zapped me and no officers have magically appeared. Giving me a nod, Xander remains behind to watch for approaching officers.

I push aside thoughts of Spike, advancing only after my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the pod. My boots clump dully on the concrete floor, and I brandish my taser as I detect the dark silhouettes crowding around the narrow windows slitting the cell doors. 

Peering through the slender openings, I try to discern Faith’s recognizable features amongst the crush of unfamiliar faces. 

Most of the women show mere curiosity at my appearance, but when they glimpse Gunn, a barrage of whistles, catcalls, curses, and shouts cascade toward us. A tall woman with tattoos covering her arms makes lewd gestures, and I half-jump as another woman lifts her ragged prison shirt to press her bare breasts against the translucent glass. I try not to think about how I’m dressed like them. 

Gunn’s tall form appears at my shoulder, and he gives me a side-whisper, “Geez. You think these women never saw a guy before.”

Continuing to move forward, I give him an ironic smile and try not to stare at the women at the windows. “They probably haven’t seen one in a while.”

“Just not one that good looking,” a familiar voice says. 

I halt and focus on the cell that I’ve almost passed. Before I can remind myself that I’m supposed to be holding a grudge toward the owner of said voice, the corner of my mouth quirks up. “Faith.”

“Damn, B. Where’d you find this tall hunk of Hershey goodness?” Faith’s eyes rake over Gunn. 

“Apparently, she hasn’t seen a guy in a while either,” Gunn says to me as he fiddles with the cell keys.

I cross my arms and regard my dark-haired counterpart as Gunn works to open Faith’s cell. “His name is *Gunn.*”

Gunn twists the thick key in the lock, and Faith ignores me. “Nice name. There must be a story behind it. You’ll have to tell me ‘bout it sometime.”

Raising an eyebrow, he conveys his distrust, “A gun’s a weapon, you know. In the right hands, it beats Slayer strength any day of the week.” 

Faith snorts and plants her hands on her hips as the door springs open. “What’re you guys doing here anyway? Breaking me out of jail early isn’t exactly letting me get what I deserve. I *killed* a guy, after all.” 

I roll my eyes at her. “We’ll explain. . . but not here. Just know that your life is in danger, or we wouldn’t be doing this.”

She regards me evenly. “And I didn’t exactly treat you so well either.”

I’m unsure how to take her admission. “Don’t worry. When we’re sure you’re safe, we’ll be bringing you back here.”

Faith’s eyes flash as she brushes past me, sleeves of her prison uniform neatly rolled up. “Kind of figured that.”

As we’re heading back to the rendezvous point, Faith strides in front of me. “So what’s going on?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” I meet her brown eyes purposefully. “Your. . . our lives are in danger, and we have to keep you safe.”

“Who’re we?”

“The Slayers. You and Buffy,” Xander informs her.

Walking backward, Faith affords Xander a glance. “Oh.” Then, her attention is back on me. “So, obviously, Angel knows what’s going on, or tall, dark and delicious wouldn’t be here with you.”

“Hey,” Gunn interrupts. “Quit talking about me like I’m not here. I don’t know you except for the stories Wes has told me. Never met you. Never want to meet you alone, without a weapon or three.”

“Angel’s told me about you.”

Gunn frowns and grips his taser. “When?”

Faith raises her hands in annoyance. “When he visits me. He’s been doing it once a month for, like, forever now. Don’t you guys communicate?”

Before Gunn can reply, I push in, “Angel visits you?”

“Yeah. He does. Never talks much about you though. Wonder why that is?” Faith challenges. “Maybe it’s cause he has a life without you now? You do know he has a kid, right?”

“I do. And Faith, I do have a life outside of Angel.”

Faith spins back into place beside me as we approach the elevators. She punches the down button. “So how’s. . . what’s his name. . . ? Roger? Richard?”

“Riley.”

“That’s right. Riley.”

“Bad topic to bring up, Faith.” Considering how you slept with him in my body. 

The elevator dings, and the doors glide apart. 

By the look on her face, I can tell that Faith surmises that Riley is no longer part of my life. She’s good at that. “Same old B. Still can’t handle an honest discussion about the truth even with someone who is trying to reform.” 

“And who’s in prison and who’s not?” Why does she push all of my buttons?

“Yep. Still the same. Probably still trapped by your outdated black-and-white notions about what’s ‘good’ and what’s ‘bad.’ You sure you don’t belong in here with me? You got the outfit and everything.”

My grip on the weapon in my hand tightens, and all the muscles in my body tense as the pent-up anger and frustration at Spike soars through me. Gunn touches my forearm and sidles between Faith and me.

“I think we should. . . not talk until we get out of here in one piece,” he says firmly.

Xander silently colludes by pushing up on Faith’s other side. 

Faith grins at Xander, who squirms under her gaze. “Surrounded by boys. I’m already starting to feel at home.”

Gunn jabs a finger at the control panel. “Get used to it. I’m not gonna take my eyes off of you until you’re back behind bars.”

“Says the guy breaking me out of prison.”

With Faith’s attention on Gunn and Xander, I manage to calm my temper; as we ride down the elevator in silence, I wonder. . . is she right? Am I trapped by my own views of what’s right and wrong. . . good and evil? 

I’m betting I know what Spike. . . and Lorne would say, and suddenly, the urge to see Spike again, to talk with him overrides all else. 

* * *

I’m the first one through the doors of the Hyperion Hotel. 

No Spike. 

I was sure he would be the first person I’d see. No matter how mad or hurt he is with me, he’s always there when I get in from a mission. He wants to know how it went, even if we retreat to our own corners. . . me to my bedroom, him to his crypt. Well, except for lately, we’ve been crashing in the same bed.

“Where is Spike?” I enunciate the three syllables, so there’s no mistake about what I’m asking. 

Angel stands in the dimly lit lobby, cradling his sleeping son against his chest. His wide, dark eyes tell me that he’s surprised by my question, but he really shouldn’t be. He stares at me anyway, not saying anything.

The door re-opens behind me, so I stride toward him, never removing my gaze from him.

“What happened to your face?” I wonder aloud, taking note of the gash on his cheek and the bright red mark over his right eye that will probably turn into a bruise. Then, I note that he’s leaning on the doorframe of the main office and favoring his ankle. 

The truth hits me. 

“I was right!”

“Right about what?” He’s earnest in his confusion.

“I knew you were taking. . .” I’m mindful of the troupe of people filing in behind me, “*things* way too easily, and it wasn’t just to make sure I was understanding about the Connor thing! It was. . . it was so. . .” I can’t even say what he’s done; I’m that angry with him. I don’t ever recall being this angry with Angel. . . except when he tried to kill himself with the sunrise at Christmastime.

“Taking what too easily?” Xander pipes from behind me.

Oh, crap. Xander doesn’t need to find out about Spike and me right now, so I ignore the query. “You know what I’m talking about,” I say pointedly to Angel, clenching my fists. “Again, I repeat. . . Where. Is. Spike?”

No one speaks until. . .

Faith’s voice rises from the silence as she steps up beside me, “Ohhhh. I think I know what’s up with you now, B. Now it all makes sense. Something’s going on with you and Spike and Angel. If I had to hazard a guess, it probably has something to do with. . . . Hey, is that baby Connor?”

Angel responds with an affirmative.

Saved by the baby. Who knew the little boy was already so powerful?

Faith hurries to Angel’s side, and he smiles softly at her. Not bothering to hide the fact that she’s monitoring Faith’s every move, Cordy meanders up at the same time. 

The monopoly I had over the floor evaporates with Faith’s intrusion, and the members of the rescue-Faith team pour around me. As Angel, Cordy, and Faith wander to the circular sofa in the center of the lobby, Fred, Wesley, and Gunn head to the main office area where Lorne stands to greet them. 

“Can I just say, ‘Huh?’ Anya, honey? What was Faith talking about? What thing with Buffy, Spike, and Angel?” Xander tails Anya as she leads him toward the staircase. 

Anya pauses on the bottom step and faces him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Nothing’s going on with Spike and Angel and Buffy, especially nothing between Spike and Buffy.” She catches the alarm on my face, and I rapidly shake my head. 

Before Xander has time to process what she’s said, Anya hurriedly continues, “We don’t have time to worry about them. Right now, I need some rest and relaxation before we start with the spell to help restore the balance between good and evil in the universe that we partly caused by resurrecting Buffy.”

“Huh?” is Xander’s response.

Anya sighs and kisses him on the forehead before pivoting and dragging him up the stairs. “I need sex.” 

“Now that’s a need I can fulfill.” Xander punctuates his statement by jabbing his finger in the air. “Lead on.”

“We can play ‘cops and robbers,’” she says, suggestively thrusting her hip out at him.

“Oooo. . . I like already.”

I sigh in relief. 

On the landing, Anya gives me a surreptitious wink, which I acknowledge with a terse smile.

The gang in the office doesn’t seem to notice that I’m aiming for them, and Angel’s glad I’ve stopped noticing him. I actually don’t mind that everyone’s distracted with his or her own stuff. 

I have one objective: find Spike.

I lean on the reception countertop, and immediately, Lorne glances up at me from the wall where he’s taken to reclining because the desk is overrun by a set of ancient-looking books and scrolls. Wes reads aloud out of one of the books, and Gunn listens intently. With glasses perched on the tip of her nose, Fred takes notes in a wire-bound notebook.

I don’t even have to give breath to my inquiry. 

Lorne merely says, “His room.”

I mouth a “Thank you” at him, which he acknowledges with a nod and lift of his hand. I barely catch Fred looking up from her work to give me a brief thumbs-up sign for good luck. She is way too perceptive for her own good. . . either that or I’m way too obvious.

At least, now I know where Spike is. 

I pass Angel on the way to the staircase. Touching his arm as Cordy lifts the baby from his arms, I whisper, “We are going to have a talk about this later.”

I don’t believe I’ve ever conveyed that much anger in such a quiet statement.

“Damn, B. I think I’m gonna have to be present for that little conversation,” Faith says without glancing my way. 

Faith doesn’t know it yet, but there’s no way in hell I’ll let her be present for my private conversation with Angel. 

“No cussing in front of the baby,” Cordy warns.

Angel looks a little panic-stricken. He should be.

* * *

Spike’s door is cracked, and light from the lamp beside his bed arcs across the shadows in the hall like a tiny beacon beckoning me into his harbor. 

My fingers curl around the door, and I poke my head into the room tentatively. My approach is such a contrast to how I normally barge into his space that it feels a little foreign when I gently call his name.

“Spike?”

“What do you want, Slayer?” comes the growled response. 

At my entrance, Spike swings his legs from where he’s been lying on the bed so that his back is to me and the ocean of the bed is between us. Not that I don’t deserve his distance. 

“Are you okay?” I step into the room like I’m an intruder, shutting the door with a low click behind me. I mentally note the suitcase open on the bed, my clothes in a neat pile on the nearby dresser top, and his packed into the half-empty cavern.

“No, but I don’t want you in here, so go away.” He sounds so defeated, and my heart aches at the way his shoulders slump. 

I climb atop the disheveled bed covers and crawl across the bed to him, balancing my chin on his left shoulder. My knees press into his lower back. “Since when do I ever listen?”

“And *now* you touch me.” Spike’s words are softer, and he turns his head briefly to peek at me, a flash of blue catching my eye. I note the tears in his wrinkled black T-shirt and the scratches on his arms. Spike’s blood isn’t flowing, but as with Angel, I can tell where bruises will eventually form under his pale skin. 

Bringing my arms and legs around his midsection as though I’m a monkey, I hold his larger frame against my own, pressing my cheek against his back. “Yeah? I guess I am.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his body slowly relaxes, tense muscles unfurling when I don’t move away. 

“I’m sorry. . . again. See? Buffy can apologize when she wants to.”

He laughs, and I enjoy the rumble of mirth in his chest. “More than once, too, eh, pet?”

“Uh huh.” I nod so that he can feel the movement.

Ever mindful of how I’m doing, he asks, “How did it go? From the way you’re acting, I take it that picking up the Faith bint was a rousing success.”

“Fine as it can be where Faith is concerned. Angel seems convinced that she’s changed, but I have my doubts.”

“It bothers you that he trusts her,” Spike observes, taking one of my hands in his.

“After what she pulled when she woke up from her coma, yeah, I don’t trust her, and I think Angel’s a fool for having so much. . . well, faith in Faith.” 

Spike’s thumb strokes my palm. “What happened?”

I thought he knew. “You don’t know?”

“Knew that she woke up from her coma and that she had it in for you. Ran across Rupert and Harris when they were out searching for her.” The small laugh returns. “Think I might’ve told them that if I found her first, I’d tell her right where you all were, so she could kill you all.”

I lift my head, but I don’t pull away. I’ve done enough of that. I can still protest though, and I do. “Hey!”

“That was all before. . . I chose. . .” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

In a sudden motion, he twists and brings me around to sit in his lap. His shoulders aren’t slumped anymore, and his sapphire eyes search my face with an intensity that makes my heart pound. His hands settle around my hips, and my uncertain hands land on his chest.

“Pet, do you honestly believe I would hurt you or yours?” 

I open my mouth, but nothing comes. Taking in the evident cuts and scrapes on his face and bare arms, I glide unsure fingertips over each wound. With unblinking eyes, he watches me studying him. 

He takes my chin in his hand and guides my gaze into his. “You know, love, that I wouldn’t. That’s my choice. . . my conscious choice. As long as you breathe. . . hell, even if you. . . stop again, I’ll abide by my choice.”

I’m not sure what to say. . . I’m not sure I’m ready to completely believe him. Good, bad, soul, no soul. . . how solid are the concepts in my head? Not very. In fact, they’re kind of fuzzy around the edges, and they’re getting fuzzier the more I get to know Spike. 

Maybe I need glasses.

I don’t want to confuse him by saying I believe him and by then questioning him further, so I say, “I’m mad at Angel.”

He seems satisfied that I’ve let him say his piece, so he follows my change of subject. “What for, love? For having Connor with Darla?”

“Actually, for hurting you.”

“Oh.” He’s stunned for a second.

My next words snap him out of it, “What happened anyway?”

Spike shrugs. “Was mindin’ my own business when he attacked me out of nowhere.” I’m skeptical, and Spike can tell, so he adds, “Well, maybe I did provoke him a little. Not even sure who threw the first punch. Things got a bit out of hand after that. You could probably tell from the state of the lobby.”

“Um, no. It was spotless.” And it had been. The blank expression on Angel’s face must have been a mask for guilt. If anyone knows anything about managing guilt, it’s Angel. 

“Oh. They must’ve cleaned it up then.” 

“He knows,” I insert before I realize what I’m saying.

“Knows about what?”

“You and me. *Us,*” I emphasize.

“Figured he would.” Spike gives me a self-satisfied smirk.

“You jerk!” I lean back and propel myself forward so that we both fall back onto the bed, me over him. He grunts on the impact, and my face comes dangerously close to his. I’m half-tempted to hit him and half-tempted to kiss him. He acts for me, rubbing his nose against mine. 

The gesture is so familiar. . . so intimate that I unintentionally balk. 

Is this how things are supposed to be with Spike? Is this how I *want* things to be with Spike?

Oh god, part of me is saying yes. 

To distract him from my shifting thoughts and emotions, I shove at the suitcase near his hip. “Were you leaving?”

He pushes on it, too, and keeps his tone casual. “Thought about it.”

“Don’t go. Please.” I’m relieved that my words come out as statements and don’t sound like I’m begging.

“Buffy. . . ,” he whispers as my legs tighten around him.

I cut his speech short by bringing my lips over his and kissing him with all the tenderness that’s within me. He hesitates at my kindness but then responds by kissing me back, lips pressing into mine, sending blood rushing through my veins in my growing excitement. His hands re-find and grip my waist as my hips and legs begin to move of their own accord, and he audibly groans as my lips leave his so that I can catch my breath.

“Pet,” he manages, “you do know where we are?”

Nodding, I slide my fingers into his jeans and tug up on his shirt, my bare fingertips slipping over his naked abdomen. I hold his gaze with my own. “I know what I’m doing.” I strip the bit of clothing over his head and raised arms and then sweep off the top of my prison attire. 

“I’m making a conscious decision, Spike.” I wiggle my hips over the growing evidence of his arousal. 

He smiles at me, a finger dipping beneath the waistband of my pants. “My own little inmate.”

I reflect his happy expression with one of my own and continue my ministrations, showing him just how much I want him there with me. . . even on Angel’s turf. 

To my amazement, I find that for the moment, I’m content that I’ve cracked the door on the prison of my beliefs about good and evil and overturned the repercussions of running away from him this morning. I’ve been honest with Spike and myself, and I no longer have a pit in my stomach. 

I think I’m going to let myself enjoy things for the next few. . . make that several minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the prison piece was fun because I used to work at a psychiatric prison in grad school and have visited other prisons as part of my training, so all the tidbits Wesley shared...actual prison stuff. I don't know how California prisons work; my knowledge comes from Texas prisons.
> 
> Okay...this wraps up what I wrote about 10 years ago with edits to make it flow better. I will be out of town for the next week or so, but I will be starting to post the new chapters as part of LJ's Seasonal Spuffy on Sunday, November 15 and again on my personal posting day, Saturday, November 21. Once posted there, I'll be transferring them here the same day. :o) There are seven new chapters, which will conclude the series.


	16. Sixteenth, Be Honest with Your Ex. . . and Yourself

Tangled up in one another, Spike and I fall into an unspoken haze of relaxation and satiation. I want nothing more to fall asleep in his arms, but I know that I can’t. . . not with everything going on in other parts of this hotel. 

I force my eyes open in the dim light of his room and try to blink away the fog. Spike makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, which draws me back in, and he nuzzles my shoulder without opening his eyes. My eyes close unbidden, and I slowly swivel my hips until I’m spooning against his. I sigh at how comfortable I feel. Spike’s arm circles around me, and his hand runs over my belly so that I’m enveloped in his embrace. My hand automatically covers his larger cool one. His face presses into my hair, and he echoes my sigh with one of his own.

This thing that used to make me feel so wrong is starting to feel right, and I don’t want to overthink it. 

Normally, Spike says or does something about now. . . something that gets on my nerves and makes me want to push him away as fast as possible, but he inconveniently articulates nothing. . . does nothing.

We stay that way for several minutes until he hugs and releases me, rolling onto his back.

“We should probably see what’s going on downstairs, pet,” he whispers, his tone reluctant as he absently runs his fingers through my tangled hair. 

I twist my torso to face him. “Do we have to?” 

He studies my face as if he doesn’t want to ever stop looking at me. The emotion is bright in his eyes even in the semi-darkness, and the shadows allow me to marvel at what I’m seeing without turning away. Where does this feeling come from? Lorne assured me that demons feel an array of emotions. I’m starting to question . . . and maybe even believe that it’s true.

“They might start to wonder,” he returns.

“Well, most of them already know about us.” I raise my hand to tick off my fingers. “Let’s see. . . Willow. . . sort of check, Dawn. . . check, Giles. . . check, Anya, Angel, and Lorne.” I cock my head to one side. “And probably Faith and Fred.” It dawns on me that this is pretty much everyone except Gunn and Xander. “Wow.” 

“Rupert knows? Oh, that’s right. The cameras. With everything going on, I forgot that he found out.” I know he didn’t forget, and his delight is rather annoying. Spike puts his hands behind his head and sinks down into the pillow, his smirk transforming into more of a self-satisfied smile. . . a smile that reminds me of the time Willow made us fall in love.

My stomach suddenly hurts. Everyone knows about us. How did that happen? What have I gotten myself into? Without meaning to, I find myself clambering out of bed. 

And I immediately regret the action and can’t face the hurt that comes with me pushing him away. Well, crap. I didn’t mean to do that. . . not again. How did we go from bliss to this crossroads again?

He flips on the side lamp so that the darkness shrouds his face, and the light illuminates me. He sits up, his right arm draped over his knee, a sheet covering his torso, and he watches me stand there awkwardly in my nakedness. I don’t move to cover myself. I don’t feel like I deserve to. 

“Well, at least you’re not running.” He manages to keep his tone even, but I hear the little hitch at the end that betrays his pain.

I deflect away by confronting him, “Where were you?”

“What?”

His defensive question leaves me feeling less vulnerable. . . the name of the game I can’t help but play with him. “Earlier. Before we left for the prison. Where did you go when we were planning?” 

He hesitates, so I know whatever he says won’t be the truth. “Nowhere.”

“Bullshit.”

“Buffy, I needed a break.” He doesn’t add that he needed the break after seeing me and Angel together outside his room.

I’m silent as I try to wrap my mind around forming words without lashing out in anger. We all need a break. Do we get one in this situation? 

No. 

In fact, I haven’t really caught a break since Willow, Tara, Anya, and Xander brought me back to life. There have been too many things piling up. I’ve had to take care of leaky pipes and money problems, of figuring out what to do with my life, of keeping custody of Dawn and making sure she’s okay, of dealing with Warren and his pals pulling decidedly unfunny pranks on me, and of assuaging all my friends’ feelings on top of regular Slayer duties. And oh, don’t forget. . . those pesky re-experiencing trauma moments of fun. 

I’m sick of people adding to the stress pile up. . . and jealousy and the weirdness that goes with it are not things I need to deal with right now. 

At the same time, Spike *has* been my break. . . my soft place to land in a sea of heartache and fear, and for once, acknowledging this allows me to slow the surge of my reaction. 

So I take a moment.

In that moment, I push past the fog of my recent struggles and neediness and pull back the curtain that’s been covering the truth of what I feel and what I know about Spike, the seeds of which have been there since before I died and came back. Then, I know what I need to do. A definitive decision is made, and my resolve increases.

Finally, all I can do is say, “I need to talk with Angel.”

He snorts. “Figures. Run to him every time you almost feel something with me. It’s becoming a pattern.”

Without looking his direction, I start to search for my prison costume, which is tangled amid pillows and the comforter which found their way to the floor in the midst of our passion. Jerking the clothing out of the mess and pulling it on so I can cross the hall to my room, I murmur, “It’s not for the reason you think.”

“Uh huh. Right.” 

I pause at the door to his room and look back. “Spike, I promise.”

His hardness softens at my tone, but he turns away so that I barely glimpse it. . . and he doesn’t say another word.

The door doesn’t make a sound on my way out.

*****

No one is downstairs in the large open foyer, but I find Angel tucked into the hotel office with Faith. She and Angel are standing over a small television on a stand to the right of the open doorway. They both have their arms crossed and legs spread a bit in a ready stance, and they’re focused. I almost hate to interrupt their silent camaraderie. . . but part of me doesn’t care. Faith sees Angel more than I do nowadays anyway. She can give us some space.

“I need to talk with Angel, Faith.” My voice is firm.

Faith doesn’t bother to face me and continues to watch the screen. “Not now, B.” 

I grit my teeth. “Seriously. Go.”

Angel glances over his shoulder then. “Buffy. The news. They know Faith is out.”

“What? How?” 

I quickly join them and match their body language, squinting at the tiny television where Faith’s picture is prominently displayed and a reporter with too much makeup and perfectly coiffed hair is urgently talking about what a dangerous fugitive Faith is and how viewers should contact the police if they see her or someone who looks like her. 

Angel sounds worried. “Turns out Wesley’s plan to keep the guards unaware failed, and they figured it out. So now, Faith’s name and photo is out there. . . ” 

“And the Watcher’s Council will know,” I finish. 

“No kidding.” Faith is more serious than I’ve heard her sound since we broke her out. They must have filled her in on how dire the situation is. 

“Where is everyone?” I gesture toward the lobby. 

Angel answers. “Wesley and Lorne are setting up a magical barrier. . .something to give us a warning if the Council shows up here. Fred and Gunn ran out for some extra magic supplies. . . well, and some food. When everyone gets back, we’ll reconvene and decide what to do next.”

“And Cordy and Angel’s son are upstairs. She’s putting him down for a nap.” Faith seems to enjoy pointing this fact out. 

“And Xander and Anya?” I ask, trying to push back my annoyance.

“Somewhere ‘taking a nap.’” Faith’s hand forms air quotes as she grins. “Speaking of ‘naps,’ where’s Spike?”

I ignore her and address Angel. It’s really none of her business. . . especially after what she did with Riley. “Well, it looks like our timeline for Faith has been moved up.”

Angel nods. “Much more quickly than we anticipated.”

“Damn.” Faith is successfully distracted. A crease appears between her eyes. “Now why did the Watchers choose me to banish to another dimension? How is that fair?”

I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it has something to do with me being *out of prison* and able to do our job?”

“Yeah, but you’re obviously all weird and stuff. . . coming back from the dead and being all emotionally fragile and indecisive.” She’s right. Didn’t Giles say that they picked up on something with the cameras other than our poor attempts at playing house?

Still, my temper flares, and it’s my turn to do air quotes and step forward so that Faith and I are face to face. “I’m *not* ‘emotionally fragile.’”

“So why are you taking up with Billy Idol? Isn’t he all soulless and ‘evil’? You wouldn’t make that choice unless. . . unless something was off.” She gestures up and down at me with one hand.

I don’t want to bring Spike into this yet. I want to talk with Angel first. Damn it. How did this happen? Nothing is going the way I want. “None of your business. I came down here to talk with Angel. Not you.”

“Well, I’d say it’s our business if you’re trusting him . . . losing your judgment while you shack . . .”

I’m about to slap her when Angel steps between us and puts up his hands in a gesture of placation. “Stop it. Now is not the time for this.” 

“But,” Faith protests. 

“No buts right now.” Angel is studying me and not looking at Faith. “Faith give us a minute.” 

Faith pushes back from us, shoving aside Angel’s hand. “Fine. Take all the time you need. My life is hanging in the balance but whatever.” She slams the door so hard on the way out of the room that it doesn’t latch and swings partly open again. 

Slayer strength is nothing to mess with . . . doors beware.

Angel is somehow completely calm, and I take a deep breath as he moves away and flicks off the tiny television set. Then, he faces me and leans on the desk, his deep brown eyes gentle. I remind myself who this is in front of me . . . my first love, the one who will always have some part of my heart . . . someone who unflinchingly cares about me. And I also remind myself that I have to be honest with him and do this now even if it’s the most inopportune time I could have chosen.

Therefore, approaching this with the fuel of my earlier anger toward Angel will not help him hear my message.

I uncross my arms and instead hold my elbows. “Actually, Faith is right. She’s kind of like Spike that way . . . “

“She says it like she sees it?” 

“Yeah.” I glance at my feet for a few seconds before looking back up. “She’s right, too. I’ve been putting on a brave face, but I haven’t been okay. I’ve been off.”

“What do you mean?” His voice is soft and concerned.

“I mean that coming back did something to me. I have nightmares, and I . . . experience like hallucinations or something. I can’t even fight properly.”

“Hallucinations?”

“Like my experience shifts and dirt falls from the sky and rats . . . lots and lots of rats biting and clawing. It’s like I’m . . . underground again and trying to claw my way. . . ” I shudder and close my eyes before forcing them open again. Don’t want to go there when I’m talking about it out loud. That way might lead to badness, and I need this conversation to happen before I lose my nerve but also before we’re distracted by the fight ahead.

“Buffy . . .” He reaches for me, but I take a step back because I have to say what I’m about to say.

“Spike says he’s seen this before.” I’m proud that I keep my tone even and without the tinge of accusation. That’s not my intention. There’s another reason I’m going this direction, and it’s not to hurt Angel. Got to pick my battles, and even though I’m still angry with him, I know that lashing out at him isn’t going to help him understand. Besides, we’ve rarely been that way with one another, and I don’t really want to start now.

Angel settles back, shoulders perceptibly sagging. “He has.”

I offer him a half-smile to reassure him. “I’m not upset about what you did or didn’t do in the past. I read all about what you did a long time ago. I just relate to the material in a different way now.”

“Thought you related before.” He’s referring to what happened when he lost his soul with me.

“Yeah . . . this is different. Spike said the people you . . . tortured . . . that he and Dru helped torture. He said they re-experienced things . . . like I have been.” 

Angel doesn’t need to verify this, but he needs to know that I know . . . needs to know because of what I’m about to say. 

I swallow and continue, “Spike’s been taking care of me.” 

Angel watches me, waiting. 

“He’s helped me when I’ve been . . . re-experiencing. I almost got killed while . . .” 

I’ve already said the next part but need to again because I’m taking it a step further than yesterday. Geez, was it only yesterday? 

“He’s been helping a long time. At first, admittedly, it was because he couldn’t fight anything but demons because he has that chip in his head, but later, something changed. It was slow and subtle, but something changed. He fought with us against Glory, and he’s taken care of Dawn more times than I can count. While I was . . . gone, he brushed her hair when she had nightmares about me and made sure she had a mom check in when she had sleepovers. I wasn’t even there to make him want to . . . he just did it. And when I came back . . . he told me . . . he told me that every night he. . . .” I trail off. I can’t share that with Angel; it’s something too personal. . . something that is just for me and Spike.

Angel doesn’t betray what he’s feeling with his impassive expression. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because . . . because I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m starting to believe Spike. He can make choices. He does have feelings.” He does have feelings for me. . . I think he even loves me like he says he does, but I don’t say this out loud. Not yet.

Angel starts, “Buffy . . .” 

I hold up my hand. “I had a talk with Lorne, too.”

Confusion colors his features. “You did? When?”

“Last night when I went into his room by acc . . . you know what? It doesn’t matter how or when. He’s a demon.”

The corner of his mouth turns up a little but goes back down. “Kind of knew that already.”

“And he said demons have a whole range of feelings . . . not limited to the desire to maim and kill. And he said that Spike . . .” I hesitate. “He cares about me.”

“How does Lorne know?”

“He heard him singing a song to Connor.”

Angel looks alarmed. “When did he do that?”

“Relax. Remember, you saw him? Spike wouldn’t do anything to Connor.”

“He doesn’t have a soul.”

I sigh. There’s that same line again. “Even if he were to think about hurting Connor, Connor is surrounded by lots of people who love and protect him.”

I’m starting to rattle Angel, and his voice is rising faster than I expected. “You sure are defensive of someone who tried to kill you and yours multiple times.”

Although part of me wants to take the bait and fire back with how hard Angel tried to kill me and my friends, I decide to say, “I sometimes even think that the choice thing has something to do with who Spike was before he became a vampire. He’s different somehow, and I think when he got the chip, that changed him somehow, too . . . let him see and experience a different way . . . something most vampires don’t get.” 

One of the nights Spike and I had a moment of conversation between periods of getting lost in our passion, he told me about his poetry. He was embarrassed, but looking back, I think I thought it was sweet. As far as the chip, I hadn’t realized I felt that way about it until I said it out loud.

“A vampire loses that when he loses his soul.” Even Angel seems to recognize his argument is weak because I see the sadness coming into his eyes. I hate hurting him, but I have to be honest. I’ve always been honest with him no matter how much it hurts.

“I think it freed him from his inhibitions, but I don’t think it changed him completely. Look at how he took care of Dru. If that doesn’t require compassion and patience, I don’t know what does. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dru chose him because she saw that in him.”

“Dru was his sire . . . there’s a bond.”

“No . . . well, yes, there is a bond, but that’s not the point. The point is . . .” Can I really say this out loud? “The point is that I care about Spike. I care about him quite a lot more than I thought I could actually.”

“I see.” He sounds resigned to my confession and not angry or devastated, so I allow myself the next statement, which frightens me more than a little bit.

“I think I’m falling in love with him.” I can’t believe that I just said that out loud. “And not just because I’m having a hard time and he’s been the one that’s there. But because of the choices he’s made to get him here. I see who he’s trying to become, and it’s something good. I feel it.”

Angel’s eyes flick up then, and I spin to view Spike standing in the doorway, his hand lightly on the frame. His blue eyes are wide when they catch my green ones, and his disbelief and vulnerability are palpable. His lips are slightly parted like he wants to say something, but words won’t come. My heart goes out to him and then comes crashing back into my chest in fear. How much did he hear? Does he believe me? I want so much to touch him, but I remain rooted in place. 

Spike’s voice is thick with emotion, and he speaks to Angel but never takes his eyes off of me. “The gang’s all here. Just wanted you to know.”

Angel brushes past me and Spike without a word, and I notice Faith hovering behind Spike. How much did she hear? Probably everything. Oh well. I’ve long since given up on privacy. The last few days have been one revelation after the next. 

I really want to go home now, throw out all the cameras, and hide under the covers. 

But I can’t. 

Evading Spike’s gaze, I start to follow Angel, my heart aching with its exposure, but Spike lays a hand on my forearm, his fingers barely brushing my skin and sending a million sparks coursing through my body. 

I feel like I’m holding my breath as he whispers, “Did you mean that, pet? Buffy?” He sounds so terrified. . . as terrified as I feel. 

“How much did you hear?” I whisper back.

“Enough.” 

I have to find out where he is, so I find his eyes again. They are bright with unshed tears, and I feel my own well up in response. “I did . . . mean it. All of it.”

He closes his eyes as if he’s trying to contain his emotions, and I find myself brushing my hand over his forehead and cheek before leaning in to lightly brush my lips over his cheek. 

His breath comes out in a sigh. “My god. I never . . . thought. I can’t believe . . .”

I chastely and gently kiss his mouth, lingering for the briefest of moments. Then, leaning my forehead against his, I murmur, “Please believe me, William.”

He’s trembling at my words, and a tear slips over his cheek. I sweep the liquid away before reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers through his. He squeezes my hand, and I hold firmly back. 

I’m ready to face them all.

Unavoidy Buffy in the house.


	17. Seventeenth, Be Civil to Uninvited Guests. . . Within Reason

“What the . . .” Xander’s voice echoes through the cavernous lobby. He halts his descent on the staircase when he spots me and Spike . . . me and Spike holding hands. Poor Anya smacks into him, her after-sex smile evaporating. 

“Spike, get away from Buffy,” he demands.

The Hyperion’s vaulted entry way is filled with people that weren’t there earlier when I came looking for Angel. Lorne and Gunn are lounging on the sofas and sipping glasses of what looks like water. Fred is peering over Wesley’s shoulder as he flips through a giant, ancient-looking volume. Faith is perched on the front desk, one leg dangling and the other propped up and topped with her left arm. Angel is alone to one side with a grim expression on his face. 

All of their gazes fly toward the stairs at Xander’s exclamation. 

Spike sounds much more confident than he did a few seconds ago. “I don’t think so, mate.” 

Xander finds speed to race down the steps and march up to us with an embarrassed looking Anya, trying to hold him back. “Xander, slow down,” she protests as she stumbles a bit.

He halts without looking back at his fiancé. He glares at Spike as he speaks to me, “Buffy, Willow has cast another spell. This is not good. . . not good at all. I knew we shouldn’t have left her in Sunnydale.”

I don’t know where to begin with Xander. He’s always been my biggest supporter, and he hated when I was with Angel, but Spike is worse. In his mind, at least Angel has a soul. He’s also a big believer in the soulless–evil correlation, and part of me wonders if his immovability on this issue has anything to do with what happened to his friend, Jesse, becoming a vampire. He had to stake one of his best friends and that does something to a person. I know from firsthand experience how much killing someone you care about hurts. 

“It’s not Willow, Xander.” My tone is quiet and gentle because I know he’s worried for me. . . worried for Willow.

“Buffy and Spike are shacking up,” Faith offers, clarifying the situation beyond a shadow of a doubt. “If that isn’t obvious, I don’t know what is.”

“No.” Xander shakes his head in disbelief. “No, no, no, no, no.” He breaks away from Anya and puts both his hands into his hair, gripping clumps of it as if he might rip it out. He suddenly looks me right in the eye, his expression pleading with me to tell him what he is seeing and hearing isn’t true. “Why?”

“Xander.” I have a feeling a repeat of the conversation I just had with Angel is in store for me. . . with an audience of avid viewers. Oh fun. 

Anya tries to help by tugging on Xander’s arm. “I-it’s okay. Really. He’s asked us to he. . .” Hesitating, she glances at Spike who gives her the smallest shake of his head, and she claps her mouth shut. 

I’m about to ask what this fragment of communication is about when Wesley firmly clears his throat. “I hate to interrupt this. . . confrontation, but we really need to discuss what we’re going to do about Faith.”

“He’s right,” Gunn agrees, rising from the sofa. “We don’t know how much time we have until the Watchers or their lackeys show up. We should plan something besides the flimsy perimeter alarm we got going outside.”

Setting his drinking glass to one side, Lorne follows Gunn’s movement except he claps and rubs his hands together. “I think that is capital idea. I frankly don’t like the idea of being caught without something in place. I hope it doesn’t involve too much fighting.” 

“And I hope it does. I’ve been itching for a fight for a while now,” Faith adds, swinging her left leg down to meet her right. 

Fred pipes up, briefly standing on tip toe, “Wesley and I have been workin’ on an idea.” She glances at Faith. “And it doesn’t involve fightin’. . . well, not in the classic sense of the word.”

Faith crosses her arms in disappointment. “Right.”

“Right.” Wesley traverses the room and lays the heavy book down next to Faith. 

Spike runs his thumb gently over my knuckles before dropping my hand. We join everyone who is gathering around Wesley. Xander casts us a wide berth, and Anya follows, conveniently wedging herself between me and Xander. I’m not sure if it’s to protect me or Xander. Given her odd acceptance of the situation between Spike and me and the weird looks they gave each other, I’m starting to think that Anya, Spike, and I have a lot to talk about later. . . or at least Spike and I do.

Angel still refuses to look at me or Spike, and instead focuses on Wesley and the book. “What did you find?”

Wesley is eager but also calm and confident in a way that is such a far cry from what he was like as Faith’s watcher in Sunnydale. “Well, I,” he gives Fred a small glance, “we’ve been reading about the Slayer line and how one Slayer rising is connected to the previous Slayer’s death. It seems that there’s a built in safety valve of sorts for extra Slayers.”

“What does that mean?” Faith asks before I can. 

Fred nods at me. “Slayers tend to . . . well, die sometimes. When Buffy died the first time with the Master, Xander revived her.” Xander fleetingly makes eye contact with me, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a way that gives me hope we might be okay. “But she was still dead long enough to lead another Slayer-in-waitin’ to become the next Slayer.”

“Kendra,” Spike says, and I wonder if he’s thinking about Dru killing Kendra.

“Right,” Wesley picks up where Fred left off. “Buffy was still alive, and she and Kendra were both active Slayers with Slayer powers. So an imbalance was present then. I was in England and at the Council. No one balked at two Slayers. No one said a word about an imbalance causing some sort of threat that needed to be addressed. They were perfectly okay with two Slayers being out there in the world, fighting evil. Because Buffy had already died, Kendra carried on the line, and Buffy no longer did even though she didn’t lose her powers. When Kendra died, Faith took her place, and now she carries the line.”

“Better believe it,” Faith interjects, leaning back on one hand.

Wesley looks slightly annoyed but continues, “Again, no one at the Council cared about the dual Slayers, and I was sent to train Faith. But when Buffy died again and was brought back, something in the line shifted.”

Angel shakes his head. “I don’t understand. How would that even matter if she isn’t carrying the line anymore?” 

“Good question,” Fred nods at him this time. “Somethin’ about the way she was brought back caused a shift. . . something in Buffy changed.”

Hidden behind the desk, Spike reaches for my hand again, a far cry from how he handled figuring out that I was different when he discovered he could hurt me without his chip going off. I am grateful for his response this time. I glance up at him and see the apology in his eyes. We’re both in the same place. Maybe something has truly accelerated a change between us in these past few days and weeks. 

“In a bad way?” Xander’s voice carries guilt.

Wesley shakes his head. “We don’t think so. We just think that something about the way she was brought back made the Slayer line shift so that Buffy *and* Faith carry the line.”

“Do what?” Gunn sounds confused, but this is sounding like what Giles told me not too long ago in our extremely awkward phone call.

Wesley gives an impatient sigh. “Meaning that if Buffy or Faith die, another potential Slayer will become a Slayer.”

“Meanin’ that there are two active Slayer lines,” Fred adds. “So there could potentially be three or more Slayers at any given time. . . if one or both of them dies and is revived.”

“So, what does *that* mean?” Angel asks.

Wesley places the fingertips of his right hand on the cover of the book he was reading earlier. “The fact that there are two lines now means there is an imbalance, and an imbalance, Fred and I think, means that there is a greater potential for an equal shift in power for the truly evil to break through into our world. . . for it to gain a greater foothold.”

“A greater chance for an apocalypse that could lead to hell on Earth.” Fred grasps one elbow and pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. 

Despite already knowing she and my friends had a hand in our current calamity, Anya is visibly shaken by the details. “I can’t believe what we did. . . caused this.” 

“That’s why you don’t mess with magic that you don’t understand. There are *always* consequences, and I’m surprised an ex-vengeance demon didn’t realize that,” Angel retorts.

Spike comes to life beside me. “Hey, that’s what I said!” When Angel glares at him, he mutters, “More or less.” 

“Don’t hear either of you complaining now.” Xander sounds exasperated, but I know he’s covering his anguish about my revelation regarding heaven. My insides are swirling with a mix of emotions ranging from anger at my friends to relief that I’m here with everyone. 

Faith breaks the silence that has descended on the group. “Great. So what do we do about it?” 

“Excellent question,” Lorne says brightly.

“Well, with what we’ve been readin’, we need to shift the line of succession back to one Slayer,” Fred explains. “And it requires some magic.”

“And a shift in dimensions,” Wesley tacks on.

“How does that work?” Faith asks, sliding forward in interest. “I’m not down for living in an alternate dimension like the Council wants. I’d much prefer my comfy prison cell in this dimension.” 

Wesley looks at her evenly. “You won’t have to do that. It’s a onetime shift into another dimension and back.” He glances at me. “A one time shift for both of you.”

“Couldn’t that lead to badness? Like one second passes here and a hundred years passes there?” I’m thinking about my trip to L.A. the time that Angel died. 

“We can control that. . . we think,” Wesley tries to reassure me and not very convincingly. “But we’re not sure if the Slayer who loses the line will keep Slayer powers.”

Faith’s eyes widen. “You’re *not sure*?” 

“Wait.” I realize something. “Who were you guys thinking of shifting the line to?”

“Good question,” Faith acknowledges.

“Well, obviously, Buffy,” Anya sounds like she’s talking to little children. “Faith’s in prison.” 

“Hey!” Faith’s eyes blaze. “Not fair.”

“We’re also not sure if we can control who the line shifts to,” Fred clarifies.

A loud shrieking alarm suddenly fills the room, piercing and steady. Everyone jams their hands over their ears, faces crumpling in pain. Almost everyone makes some sort of noise, but I can’t hear the sound. Lorne doubles over and sinks to the ground until he is in a fetal position. Apparently, his ears are extra sensitive. 

Just as quickly as the thundering noise started, it abruptly stops. My ears ring for several seconds.

Wesley is the first to regain his senses and react. “That’s the alarm.”

“No joke,” Gunn says, running for a large wooden trunk that looks almost exactly like my trunk of slaying tools at home. “Time to weapon up.”

Faith opens her mouth and wiggles her jaw as if this will clear her ears. “Did you have to make it so . . .” She rubs both ears with the palms of her hands, fingers splayed out.

“Bloody loud?” Spike completes her thought for her but watches me, making sure I’m okay. I smile at him. He cocks his head to one side, which makes my heart beat a little faster, and he offers me a small smile in return.

Wesley shrugs. “Didn’t have time to calibrate it.”

With the exception of Fred who is helping Lorne regain his feet, we all cluster around Gunn as he passes out weapons. 

He gives me a nod as he slaps a stake against my palm. I stuff the bit of wood in my pocket and accept and brandish the crossbow he offers me next. I sling a sheaf of arrows over my shoulder and back away to allow the others to obtain necessary defenses while loading the weapon. 

Spike manages to nab a slim quarter staff with a blade on one end and small club-like feature on the other. He runs his hand along the wood and murmurs, “Nice.”

The sound of sliding metal and scraping wood fills the lobby as we fan out into a defensive position, each of us with a different vantage point. Only Angel breaks away from our formation.

“Got to find Cordy and Connor.” His voice is urgent and tight as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, the front doors to the hotel fly open, and a stream of large bodies enter the room, moving with much more speed than humanly possible. The scent of magic and damp earth flows in with them. We’re surrounded within seconds, and I realize that these dark-cloaked beings have swords raised against us. Spike squints at them, confusion crossing his features, and he frowns. I study them closer. 

Wait a second. They all look like. . .

“It’s tha-that guy. . . you know, from the motorcycle,” Anya calls out, looking from Xander to Spike and me for our verification.

Xander is confused, “Huh?” Well, he was driving after all.

“From the drive here. Don’t you remember?” She waves her long knife up and down. “You know!”

Three of the big guys press toward her, pushing swords into her face, and she backs down, Xander moving closer to her side.

Disbelief fills my gut as my eyes dart from one figure to the next. “Mr. Helmunde. They’re all. . .”

“They’re all the sodding social worker!” Spike concludes.

How is this possible? 

The doors wham open again so hard that the hinges protest and break just as another Mr. Helmunde ushers a struggling Cordy down the steps behind us. She’s clutching a strangely silent but alert Connor in her arms. 

“Are you okay?” Angel’s voice carries such concern and emotion that my heart goes to him, but I can’t pay attention to that because two men dressed in various shades of tweed have entered broken doorway. A smaller, hooded, and decidedly smaller and feminine figure trails slightly behind them. 

“We’re fine,” Cordy is so calm that I almost can’t believe this is the Cordelia I know.

“Buffy Summers,” the older, balding one bellows. 

The Council has without a doubt found us. Well, this calls for. . . 

“Where’s Quentin?” I ask, keeping my tone lighter than I feel inside. As a Slayer, I have that down quite pat by now. “Shouldn’t he be here instead of sending his lackeys? And what is up with the clones?” 

The older man laughs. “They’re not clones, and Quentin has other matters to attend to.”

“And Giles?” Xander asks the question I was wondering but afraid to verbalize.

“Rupert Giles is not involved.” 

I frown. What kind of non-answer. . . 

“What does that mean?” Anya steps forward before yelping at the Mr. Helmunde on her right who lowers the weapon at her throat.

“Exactly what it means.” Weapon free, Baldy, as he has now become in my head, casually strolls up to me. He’s enjoying this way too much. “We need to talk.”

“About how you want to send me to some alternate dimension all alone and make Buffy primo Slayer?” Faith’s grip tightens on the sword she’s holding. 

The younger Watcher-type steps forward, sounding full of himself, “Actually, we were hoping you’d go willingly. . . for the greater good of humanity. After all, you acknowledge that you have a lot to atone for.”

“Don’t think so, pal,” she snaps.

Even though Baldy is a foot taller than me, I stand tall. “Did you guys even think of trying to talk with us about this plan? Even consider that there might be an alternative to just shoving one of us into some unknown oblivion?” 

Baldy smiles at me the way the original Mr. Helmunde did in our house, and I want to throw up a little. “Ours is the most foolproof plan. It carries the least amount of risk to reverse the imbalance caused by your return. The other ways. . . they’re more messy.” 

“Messy how?” Spike asks from my left. 

With disgust in his eyes, his eyes flick to the vampire. “Messy as in unnecessary bloodshed and death. Something I’m sure you would appreciate, William the Bloody.” He almost casually lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. “Hanna, come. We need to get started.” 

With head bowed and trembling all over, the young woman shuffles forward. Spike shifts uneasily next to me. 

“Hanna here is going to start the spell, and you are going to surrender Faith to this cause. It really is for the greater good of mankind.”

“Um, no, we aren’t,” Angel calls from above all of us. He emits a roar, and I whirl to see his face shift and eyes glow golden. In a moment, he’s freed Cordy from her captor, pushing her and Connor gently away and gripping the clone’s neck with his other hand. 

Baldy draws away from me, pulling Hanna with him, and the younger Watcher blows a high-pitched whistle. The clones advance on us, forcing us into a tighter and tighter circle. 

“What are we supposed to do?” Xander worries. “They’re human.”

“Actually, they’re so not,” Lorne corrects, holding up his weapon and doing a shifty sideways dance.

“What are they?” Fred asks, and I wonder if she’s strong enough to manage in this fight, being human and all.

Wesley doesn’t take his eyes off the trio approaching him. “I think they might be golems.”

“Do what?” Gunn asks.

“Clay men,” Spike clarifies . . . as if that helps. “But they’re not detectable by Angel or me, so very well made clay men.”

“And they bleed,” I add, remembering Mr. Helmunde’s blood on my hands from our highway adventure.

“Still not too clear,” Xander bumps into Faith while putting a protective arm up for Anya. 

Wesley sighs. “In sum, men made of clay. They’re made by magic and carry out the orders of their creators. They’re strong and rather indestructible unless. . .”

Well, that explains the earthy smell. . . or maybe that’s the magic.

“Unless what?” I holler over the shrill whistle.

“Look for a parchment or talisman of some sort. If you get it from them, they’ll crumble.” 

As if they couldn’t get any creepier, the golems grin almost simultaneously.

Then, they attack.


	18. Eighteenth, When Company Becomes Too Much, Strategize to Get Rid of Them

The battle is long. . . long because we don’t know how to fight the multiple Mr. Helmundes. 

But we do fight. 

The golems are a strong, seemingly never-ending sea of bodies, and the sound of metal on metal rips through the air, causing it to almost crackle with electricity. Somehow the golems, though supposedly made of clay, are far from lumbering and slow, and the tempo of the fight is as fast as any night of patrol in the Sunnydale cemetery. 

Wesley and Gunn somehow maneuver Fred over to a pile of magic supplies she’s somehow gathered up, and she’s mashing herbs or some other ingredients together in a stone pot. 

Angel is awkwardly covering Cordy and Connor, and his efforts to somehow throw one golem crashing into three others coming up the stairs is thwarted by four more pouring out of some unseen hiding place upstairs. 

Lorne is back to back with Faith who is manhandling two or three to Lorne’s one who seems to be barely swiping at the green demon because Lorne is dodging and weaving like he’s dancing some crazy tribal dance. 

Xander and Anya are fighting efficiently with Anya taking little jabs with her knife while Xander whirls and ducks and somehow manages to protect his fiancé while landing blows. Watching them, I feel a surge of pride for my friends. 

Meanwhile, Spike and I fight together in perfect synchrony as if we have been doing this dance forever. One golem leaps on his back, and Spike stumbles at the weight but slams his attacker into the wall so that his grip is loosened, and then, he spins and jabs the sharp end of his quarterstaff into the golem’s belly. 

The golem groans but doesn’t fall and manages to swing his sword at Spike’s head. Spike hustles away and responds with another blow of the staff into yet another golem rushing from behind, knocking the golem toward me. I land a solid roundhouse kick to the golem’s chest and use the push off to flip over a third golem and shoot him with the crossbow. The arrow dives into his back and blood soaks his clothes, but the damage doesn’t slow him down, and he reaches back to snap the wood with his fingers. 

“Damn,” I shout as another golem rushes up behind me. There are too many. Lucky for my Slayer instincts, I jump just as he swipes at my legs, but he lands a blow on my lower back that sends me sprawling.

“Buffy!” Spike’s shadow falls over me in a second, twirling and batting back golems until I can regain my feet. 

As I stand, I see that Angel’s carrying his son and descending the stairs with golems in tow, and Cordy has recovered a sword from the enemy, a sword which she is very successfully using against her fair share of golems. 

I’m impressed. Angel must have taught her something because I recognize the moves. He taught me the same ones.

I decide that I want a nifty sword, and using my ineffectual crossbow, I slug the golem that has just sent Spike reeling. The aftershock echoes down my arm, but the golem drops his blade, which I snag by the hilt before metal hits the floor. Tossing aside the crossbow and putting all my strength into my movement, I swing the sword at the golem pulling Spike up by the collar of his duster. I take a chunk out of the clay man’s shoulder, and somewhat to my surprise, crumbles of dirt roll over his shirt to the ground instead of blood. 

The sound of the detritus against the tiled floor magnifies in my mind over the din of the fighting, shouting, grunting, and barely perceptible chanting. I barely notice the injured golem turning to me and dropping Spike so that he lands in a crouch. Spike calls my name, but no sound reaches my ears. 

The sound of an avalanche of dirt and rocks overwhelms my senses, and the world abruptly tilts sideways, my senses filled with the taste of damp earth and the scratch of my fingers against satin. My heartbeat stumbles and picks up speed until I feel like it’s going to rip out of my chest, and my mind is swathed in a confusing mass of paralyzing fear and panic. 

Somewhere inside of me, a little voice thrusts forth. . . you know what this is, Buffy. 

Then, a familiar touch fills my hand, and I feel fingers push between mine. A whoosh of wind, and his voice sweeps past the din of the flashback, “Buffy, love, come back.” The tone is rushed and urgent but warm and strong. His breath bathes my ear in safety. . . and I’m reminded that every night he saves me. 

I blink.

And the room rights itself, my senses all realigning with reality, and I re-grip the sword handle without much time to think about what just happened. I see a flash of blue and a streak of platinum blonde before I sense him behind me. We’re back to back and surrounded by golems. The fight together is so familiar and easy that I allow myself to find my voice. This grounds me further.

“What’s with the chanting?” I ask as Spike parries swinging arms. “And the smell?” I wrinkle my nose.

I spin and slice into a golem’s exposed thigh and catch Spike’s reply, “Fred. Burning something. She’s casting some spell. Not sure. . .” Spike ducks as a golem sword sings over his head, “what for.”

“Assuming something to help us, I hope?” The air is temporarily knocked out of my lungs as a golem who has lost his sword decides to take a running charge at my chest. 

“Better be ‘cause it looks like we’re not getting a leg up anytime soon.”

As soon as the words leave Spike’s mouth, the electricity flickers, winking on and off in hesitating bursts. A crackling sound rushes all around us, and the walls of the hotel vibrate, violently rattling the furniture and light fixtures above. The fight abruptly quiets to a hush, and Fred’s magnified voice rises above the cacophony in rapid fire syllables. . . syllables in a language I don’t recognize. 

I glance at Spike and he shakes his head between flashes. I’m not slipping back into. . . 

Then, the lobby lights snap back on in unflinching brilliance. 

All sound ceases. 

I blink past the brightness to view my friends turning to face their opponents, weapons at the ready. 

The golems have all slowed considerably, moving in slow motion like we’re watching a film frame by frame. Everyone neatly sidesteps their opponents and gathers closer to one another. Clothes are rumpled and askew, and flesh is torn, and spilled demon, human, and golem blood is evident. A few of our band are limping, but otherwise, we are intact.

I hear Gunn’s relieved tone between the heavy breathing of exertion, “Nice one, Fred.” 

Golem threat delayed, I search quickly for Baldy. His sidekick is cowering behind a large potted plant, and in a very un-Wesley-like move, Wesley strides over, grabs him by the scruff, and hauls him out. 

“Where is Anthony?” he growls. 

So Baldy has a name. Huh. Wouldn’t have pictured that one.

The shaking young Watcher shakes his head and desperately shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know.

A small squeak of alarm darts across the room. 

Anthony is behind Fred, one arm tight around her midsection pinning her arms to her sides. His other holds a knife to her throat, the blade glinting in the light. He shoves her forward toward the pot of magic stuff she used for the spell. “No one move, or I’ll slit her throat!” To show that he means business, he presses the blade into her skin, and a small line of scarlet red blood forms on her fair skin. 

In my peripheral vision, Spike and Angel move forward, drawn by the sight and probably smell of Fred’s blood being spilled. Gunn and Wesley look especially alarmed. 

Angel gently passes a now whimpering Connor to Cordelia and raises a hand like he’s trying to calm a panicked vampire victim, “Hold on. We can work something out. No need to harm Fred. She’s innocent here.”

Anthony lets out a short barking laugh. “Innocent? She’s interfering with Council business. . . interfering with the world’s very survival with her little spell here. Now, she’s going to break this spell, and we’re going to go about our business. The business of putting things right. . . things that others shouldn’t be messing with.” 

Anya and Xander shift uncomfortably behind me.

A loud crack resounds, the gong of metal on bone, and Anthony’s body crumples to the ground. 

Holding her throat, Fred hastily scoots away to reveal a slight, hooded figure standing where Anthony had been. Her hood has settled back, and her long, ebony hair falls in thick waves over her shoulders. Hanna tosses aside the giant frying pan she’s used to knock Anthony unconscious. The metal clatters against the ground, and her grin is grim and determined. 

She shrugs, no longer cowed. Her British accent is clear as she says, “Didn’t like him much anyway.” 

“Where’d she get the frying pan?” Xander side-whispers.

Cordy responds in kind, “Hotel kitchen.” 

“Ah.”

“Who *are* you?” Faith asks.

Hanna nods, expecting the query. “I’m a witch. Mr. Giles sent me to help. . . well, under the guise of helping the Council. . . at least these two anyway. I belong to a coven in England. . . a coven Mr. Giles knows quite well. He, um, has a relationship with one of our. . . . Well, she sent me, too. I’m all filled in on what’s been going on, and my specialty is inter-dimensional travel and animation or reanimation as it were.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do we know you are who you say you are?” 

“Ah, yes, Mr. Giles said you would ask.” She rummages in the pocket of her cloak and pulls out a folded paper. “Here.” She proffers the note, which Gunn snags and hands to Wesley.

After a few seconds or reading, Wesley nods, still staring at what’s written on the page. “She’s legitimate.”

“Can you tell us what to do with these guys?” Lorne casually sidesteps a slow swing from one of the golems and gestures up and down at him.

She grins. “Yes.” She lifts an eyebrow at Wesley. “You were close earlier. There isn’t a parchment that contains the animation spell, but the spell is written on their forehead.”

Gunn squints and studies the closest golem’s brow. “Um, I don’t see anything.”

“Right.” Hanna furrows her brow, and raising her hand, she mutters something under her breath. 

A small glowing light flickers and dances over the golems’ foreheads, the air shimmers, and dark letters appear.

“Huh. Nice.” Spike is impressed. “Now what?”

Wesley knows. “Once the writing is revealed like so, you simply erase everything but what means ‘death.’”

Hanna nods. “Correct. That should work.”

“But what do we do with all the bodies?” Anya queries.

“They should dissipate,” Hanna assures.

“All right then! Let’s get it done,” Lorne gestures at Faith, who snags and pins the closest golem’s arms. “Er, this isn’t exactly in English.”

Wesley hurries over to read what’s written. “Right, erase the first letter. The remaining letters are ‘death.’”

Lorne rubs a finger over the golem’s forehead, and one Mr. Helmunde promptly crumbles away.

One clay man down.

Spike and I meet each other's eyes, and he nods. 

We get to work. 

* * * 

Xander corners me as everyone is packing up to head to Sunnydale. Well, everyone except Angel, Cordy, Lorne, and Gunn who are staying in L.A. to take care of Anthony and the other Watcher whose name as it turns out is Jonathan. Wesley, Fred, and Hanna are coming with us to perform the spell that Wesley discussed earlier. Not shockingly, the spell has to be performed at the hellmouth. 

“So, can we talk?” Xander is earnest. Somehow being outside in the dark away from the flurry of activity in the hotel is calming.

I shift one of Anya’s boxes against my hip as Xander tucks his into the car. I knew this was coming. Glancing around, I realize we’re alone outside for a moment. “Sure.”

Xander reappears and shoves his hands in his back pockets, his brown eyes firm. “You know I don’t approve. Far far from it.”

I know this. “Yes. I do.”

“I trust Spike about as far as I can throw him.”

I nod. Tell me something I don’t already know. 

He looks me straight in the eye. “And I care about you. . . a lot.”

“I know.”

“You’re been through more than your fair share of crap in your relationships and had more losses than I can count. We all have at this point. . . you, me, and Willow. You haven’t always handled things the best, but well, neither have I. . . neither have we.”

I almost can’t believe how frank Xander’s being. Maybe the battle we just fought helped him more than just react. “So true. . . we’ve all been through a lot.” 

“And maybe it’s just cause we all almost died in there, but I’m realizing that no matter what choices we make, we’ll still need each other.” He hesitates and looks so sad that I want to hug him. “Look, Buffy, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what we. . . for my part in bringing you back fr. . .” He stops, bowing his head, and I realize that he can’t say that he pulled me out of heaven. . . that the magic that he, Willow, Tara, and Anya used is the cause of all our current troubles.

I put a hand on his arm. “There’s nothing that we can do about that now. It’s done. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His relief is palpable. “I just don’t want to lose you to. . . I can’t lose you again.”

He’s referring to Spike. “You won’t. I know that I can’t convince you that he’s different now.” He gives me look. “But he’s not going to consume me. I’m not going to let him.”

Xander is unconvinced, but that’s okay. “You’re just in a vulnerable state right now, and he’s taken advantage of that. I hate that you and Willow are hurting.” 

“I’m feeling stronger, Xander, and part of the reason is because of Spike.” I don’t feel like filling him in on all the recent flashbacks and nightmares. No need to make him feel worse. Besides, things are getting better on that front. . . as long as I have Spike.

Xander shakes his head, and I can tell he is trying not to say something he’ll regret. “I don’t like it, but I won’t lose our friendship because of it.”

“And you’ll tell me if you think you’re losing me? Tell me if you think I’m losing myself?” I don’t add the because of Spike part.

He takes the box from me and shoves it in the car. Something topples over, but he ignores it. “Of course. Don’t expect me to be best pals with him or to be really nice about it all the time. Can’t let Spike think I approve. . . . And I reserve the right to help put a dusty end to Spike if he hurts you, Dawn, or anyone else I care about.”

“People hurt each other when they care about each other. Kind of comes with the territory. Part of the whole being human thing.”

“True, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t be protective of you. I will always be protective of you and Willow. You’re my girls.” He pauses and glances back at the hotel to make sure no one else heard what he just said. “Don’t tell Anya. She might become a vengeance demon again and wreak havoc on me. And yes, I realize that my fiancé is an ex-demon, so I don’t have much room to complain about your romantic choices.”

“What do you think about Angel and Cordy?” I can’t help but change the subject.

“Don’t even get me started!”

We grin at each other. Xander holds out his arms, and I embrace him. His hug feels good. I didn’t realize how much I needed my friend until right about now. 

The direct apology was nice, too. 

Come to think of it, I’m not the only one who’s been avoidy. 

* * *

The goodbyes are like a wedding receiving line at a reception with all the Sunnydale folks moving slowly from one person to the next. 

Lorne is up first, his injured face and hand patched up from the fight. He briefly embraces me, his green cheek atop my head. I barely hear his whisper, “Give him a chance, chickadee. I don’t believe you’ll regret it.” 

I smile up at him. “Thank you for our. . . chat.”

He salutes me with two fingers. “Anytime. And if you ever need a hand with detangling someone’s motives, let me know. I’m happy to listen to their tune.”

“Where were you a couple of months ago?”

“Ah. I heard about Sweet and the singing.”

“H-how?” I wonder how much the demon world knows about my big revelation about being in heaven.

“Run across him before. Thinks he’s all sophisticated and better than the rest of us in the musical magic realm. He doesn’t really appreciate music beyond the pyromania of it all. Well that and some secret revelation. Whoopdeedoo.” Lornes twirls a finger mid-air and inclines his head at me. “There’s a *lot* more to it than a short lived high like that.”

I can’t help but grin. “I can imagine.”

Cordy’s next in the group. Perched on her hip, baby Connor coos and sucks on his fingers. He studies me with wide, curious blue eyes as I approach. The eyes must be Darla’s, and I still see a lot of Angel in him, not just in how he looks but in how quiet he is. . . how observant. I gently stroke his soft cheek and then give Cordelia a big hug. It’s my turn to whisper, “Take care of him for me.” 

Cupping the baby’s head and bouncing him a little, Cordy nods sagely at me. She knows I’m talking about Angel. “Will do.”

“He’s beautiful.” I’m referring to the baby this time.

Cordelia looks at Connor in adoration. “He is.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Same.”

“Next time, longer chat?”

“Definitely.” She is thoughtful for a moment and tilts her head in Xander’s direction. “Take care of him for me.” 

“Always.”

She gives me a little smile then, and I can tell she is happy here in L.A., probably happier than I’ve ever seen her. Maybe it’s the baby and maybe it’s Angel, but somehow, I think she needed to get away from Sunnydale to find herself. 

Speaking of Angel. . . he’s standing over to the side, chatting with Anya, hands in his pockets. She backs away when she gathers that I’m approaching, leaving me with my first love. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His earlier anger has slipped from his voice, and he is tender with me again. 

We regard each other. I’m unsure quite what to say. 

We speak at the same time. 

“So. . .”

“Be careful .”

I’m not sure what he’s referring to and decide it’s probably multiple things in my life. “I’ll try. Can’t promise anything. You, too.”

He smiles, but the smile is tinged with sadness. He nods, pauses, and then says, “I don’t approve. You know that, but. . .”

“You’ll dust him if he hurts me. Got it.”

“He’s taking advantage of you since you came back from. . . since you’re vulnerable.” Agitation is creeping back into his tone.

First Xander, now Angel. . . well, Angel two or three times now. The same speech is getting more than a bit old and tired. I hold up my hand.

Angel changes tacks. “And I’m here if you need me.” He doesn’t add the when-things-go-wrong-with-Spike piece, but I understand.

Since hugs are flowing freely today, my arms find themselves around him. Somehow we don’t need to say anything else, and somehow I know things have irrevocably changed between us. 

With that, I wave a goodbye to Gunn and turn to find Spike staring at me with naked emotion on his face, feelings that I know everyone can see. As he studies my face, his expression transforms from hurt into one of understanding, and his shoulders visibly relax. The smile in his eyes doesn’t touch his lips, but I beam at him, my fear at what’s coming next momentarily forgotten.

With affection, I intentionally brush my arm against his as I pass him by, following Anya and Xander through the broken doors and into the night. 

We’re going home.


	19. Nineteenth, Appreciate Coming Home After a Trip Away

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, B.” Faith is hanging back with the rest of us. For all her bravado in prison, maybe something has changed in her. 

I stop next to her, hands on my hips, surveying our destination. “You and me both.”

“What the bloody hell is this?” Spike gestures in the direction we’re all looking.

“The school’s supposed to be a blown up heap of rubble.” Faith is confused. 

“Xander?” I twist back to view my friend. “What’s going on?”

Xander gives me a blank look but can’t maintain it. Finally, he raises his hands in defense and says in a small voice, “Okay, okay. I may have heard that there was a contractor set to rebuild the school. They started rebuilding. The lead contractor quit. Probably some hellmouth-y stuff. You know how that is.” He pauses. “And my company may be sort of taking over?”

“What?! Why didn’t you tell us? Kinda an important detail to leave out that they’re rebuilding the high school on the hellmouth!” I humph and cross my arms. “And I worked side by side with you, carrying beams and helping build. . . a building. . .” 

“For one day,” Xander reminds me. “And we’ve been kind of busy with a lot of other stuff.” He waves his hand around. “So, it slipped my mind.” He looks and sounds reasonably abashed, so I let it go. 

“And you’re going to help rebuild it?” Faith glares at Xander. “Tell me how that’s a brilliant plan?”

Spike snorts. “No kidding.”

“Dawn is going to that school next year,” I add.

Xander shrugs. “Gotta pay the bills?” 

Arms full of supplies that they won’t let the rest of us help carry, Wesley and Hanna haven’t said a word to play into the banter among Faith, Spike, Xander, and me. Instead, full moon lighting the way through the darkness, Hanna leads him toward the old teacher-student parking lot, no doubt following some witch-y sixth sense. The wreckage that was Sunnydale High School has been cleared, and evidence of new structure being built is all over the place. Some portions are more complete than others, but luckily, the area where we’re headed doesn’t look too difficult to navigate.

Faith leads the way after Wesley and Hanna, and Xander shuffles after her without trying to keep up. Spike hangs back, and I catch his hand in mine as I deliberately walk a little slower.

I have something to check out with him.

“So,” I try to sound nonchalant or as nonchalant as one can be on the way to preventing major evil from infiltrating the world. “I’ve been noticing something.”

He holds my hand like he doesn’t quite believe I’m okay with it. “What, pet?”

“Well, like tonight, at the Magic Box. Fred stayed behind with Anya.”

“So? Demon girl had something she needed to sort out, and the other bint. . . Fred, is it, decided to stay. I didn’t make much of it.” Now who’s not making eye contact?

“Well, it’s not odd for Anya to stay behind. She put in her two cents about the spell like Giles asked her to, and well, you know her. . . if anything’s off in the shop, she has to figure it out before she can do anything else, but why Fred?”

“How am I supposed to know?” I detect a faint hint of annoyance in his tone, and he’s studying the ground way too hard.

But I press on. It’s what I do with Spike when he’s hiding something. I’d been too nervous to ask him about what I noticed in the car ride back to Sunnydale. The tension had been high enough with Xander driving us and knowing about me and Spike and with Faith asking questions about everyone in Sunnydale and making running commentary on whatever Anya told her. Plus, with Faith in the back seat with Spike and me, we all had to uncomfortably hold those stupid boxes on our lap.

“Fred said something weird at the hotel. She said she was working on a project for Anya.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t really care about Anya’s little projects. . . as long as they don’t involve me. Did you know she tried to get me to weigh in on the seating arrangements at the reception? Said I might have insight or whatnot because I’m a vampire. I have no idea who should or shouldn’t sit together, and I don’t bloody well care.”

I ignore the part about Xander and Anya’s wedding reception. “Well, I didn’t think it involved you until I thought about Anya catching us in the Magic Box.” Was that only a few days ago? “And then, later, at the hotel when you gave Anya a little signal while Xander was yelling about you and me. There was a whole signal-y thing going back and forth between you.”

Halting, Spike pulls his hand away and stuffs both his hands in the pockets of his duster. He stares at me evenly, trying to make me believe him. “Honestly, pet. I think you might be seeing things.”

Hurt shoots through my chest. Really? After everything that’s happened and everything I’m going through, he tells me such an obvious lie? “I am *not* seeing things, and I don’t believe you don’t know anything about what I’m talking about. Spike, it’s me. I know you; you know me. I know when you’re hiding something. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out either.”

Breaking eye contact, he sighs in defeat. Before things shifted with us, he never would have given in so easily. “Look, Buffy.” He peers up at me with that loving look in his eyes. . . the one I’ve been notorious for running away from. “There is something to what you’ve noticed.”

I start to say something, but he puts a finger to my lips. His touch stirs something peaceful inside of me, and I instantly forget what words I was going to utter.

He continues, “I will tell you. I promise. There’s a lot I want to talk about. But first, can we get through this next part?” He sounds so worried that I realize that I’m doing the avoidance thing again. I never quite realized how much I do that.

So, I admit, “I’m scared, too, but I’m coming back. I promise.”

He pulls me close then and holds me tight, and I close my eyes against the cool smoothness of the leather covering his chest. “You better. I don’t think I could handle it again. . . at least not very well.”

“You guys coming?” shouts Faith.

“Quiet, Faith,” Xander shushes her. “We don’t need to attract any vampires while we’re doing this. . . any more vampires, that is.”

“Whatever,” she says, not quietly. “You know, there’s something homey about being back in Sunnydale.”

Spike and I part and move to join them as I give a little giggle. “Two vampire Slayers, and we don’t need any more vampires.”

* * *

Hanna and Wesley take us to the place where the library used to be. . . directly over the hellmouth. A foundation has been poured, and there are brightly-colored markers where walls will be. Wesley and Hanna start to set up their supplies and dole out small tasks to the rest of us who are less magically inclined. 

“Wonder what this will be in the new school?” Xander conjectures aloud as he draws a giant chalk circle in the newly poured concrete. 

“Definitely not the library,” Spike speculates. He trails Xander, sprinkling some large concoction of herbs over the circle. 

An ancient book in one hand, Faith is drawing small symbols in some ancient language inside the circle. “Why not?” 

“It’s way too small,” Wesley pauses in his task of stacking wood for a fire. “It would be quite telling about the American school system if this were the library.”

“Or, it could just be that the books will have all been replaced by computers. Maybe it’s a computer lab?” My job is to pass ingredients at the right time to Hanna who is mixing things in a cauldron-type pot. I wish Willow were here; I miss her so much, and I hate how things have been between us lately with her escaping into the dark magic and hurting Dawn. . . hurting me. 

“That would be worse.”

“Nah. Not a library.” Xander stands up and surveys his handiwork. “Odds are this will be an office of some sort.”

“Weird. An office over the hellmouth. Doesn’t seem right somehow. Giles will be disappointed.” I finish helping Hanna who begins softly murmuring the words of some sort of spell. Dusting my pants off, I join Wesley. “Spike, got your lighter?”

Spike is busily making sure the herbs don’t go flying away in the light breeze that blows through every so often, but he doesn’t hesitate to toss me his Zippo. The silver lighter reflects moonlight as it arcs through the air.

The metal lands neatly in my palm. “Thanks.” Flicking on the flame, I lean over and touch it to the dry kindling. 

Wesley gives the fire some gentle coaxing with his breath until the branches are consumed by a blaze of yellows and oranges. The smell of wood burning fills my nose. “Hanna,” he calls. “Ready.”

Hanna’s voice doesn’t cease as she carefully balances the vessel, settling it into the nest Wesley created in the wood. 

Sidling up to Spike, I try to give the lighter back to him, but he shakes his head, his eyes shining warm in the firelight. He folds my fingers over the object. “Keep it, love. If I can’t go with you, it’ll ground you if you need it.” 

The bit of Spike that I slide into my pocket reminds me of the time he dug around to get it back from me, but the memory doesn’t make me feel disgusted with myself anymore. I smile up at him, not hiding the tenderness in my expression. “Okay.”

Faith joins me, arms crossed over her chest. “So, ready, B?”

I don’t bother nodding. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Before we left the Magic Box, Wesley explained the spell to us again. The spell involves Faith and me shifting into another dimension while channeling the power of the hellmouth. . . never mind that it’s an evil power. Of course, Wesley, in his infinite Watcher wisdom, reminded us that the power in the hellmouth is “neither inherently good nor evil” just because demons and various other creatures with “nefarious motives” are attracted to it. Spike seemed to agree with him at least. 

I wonder why it’s called a hellmouth then. 

Anyway, the shift there and back should reset the Slayer line once we return. Wesley said a whole bunch of other stuff like Giles usually does, but as usual, I only pay attention to the broad strokes. They’re usually enough to get me by.

Wesley nods at us, giving us the go ahead. Faith crosses gingerly into the circle, and I follow suit. My heart begins hammering in my chest as Hanna joins us, her voice increasing in volume and speed. Faith and I do as Wesley instructed and face one another. She puts her hands out first, and I grasp both firmly. We smile at one another, cognizant of the miracle of Slayer strength flowing between us. 

“You know I’m okay if I don’t keep the powers, right?” Faith is sincere and calm now that the reality of the spell is imminent. “It’s not like I need them in prison.”

Faith has been through so much and obviously come farther than I thought. I find myself forgetting her earlier bluntness and forgiving her for the past, the last bit of anger and hurt at her betrayal draining away. . . at least for the moment. Mom would be proud of me. “And I hope you keep them.” And I do.

Hanna’s voice echoes in the small space and fills my ears. Her fingers dip into the small ceramic pot she’s holding. She strokes warm blood mixed with some sort of spices onto one of my cheeks and one of Faith’s. Then, she deliberately walks around us and repeats the gesture on the other side. The bloody concoction drips down our faces, and resolve shines in Faith’s eyes. I barely register Hanna’s exit from the circle. 

Abruptly, all sound ceases and a small glowing light appears to our left, brilliant in pinks and blues. My eyes are drawn to the radiance as it expands, sizzling with zigzagging lines of energy. My heart skips a beat, and mesmerized, I stare into the portal, reminded of the dimensional tear created by Dawn’s blood. . . the tear that I leaped into not so long ago when death was my gift. I find myself swept up into the emotions of that moment. . . fear, sadness, determination, resignation. . . and peace. I would save Dawn. . . save the world.

I blink. 

Dawn.

My little sister. 

I forgot to call Dawn to tell her we were back. . . to tell her that we’re okay!

I shake my head. 

Too late now.

Faith and I step into the rift at the same time.

* * *

The power of the spell courses through us in a rush like a gale of wind curling around two tall buildings so that we are forced to stay upright, and somehow we manage not to let go of one another. The pain is excruciating as lightning waves of energy skim over my skin and dive deeper, invigorating every cell in my being and straining them to the breaking point. I try to keep my eyes open as long as possible, but the throbbing ache becomes too powerful, and my lids slam closed so that my vision is scarlet red from the brilliance all around me. The scent is sharp and cloying like burning sugar, coming to my awareness in intermittent but piercing moments, almost as if my sense of smell is partially incapacitated. 

As the magic abruptly dissipates, Faith’s hand slips out of my grasp, and my legs buckle under me as the hard ground crashes into me. My arms fly out to catch me, but the force is harsh and powerful, and my ankle twists followed by a sharp, shooting pain. 

My eyes fly open then, and I blink at the bright, almost white light that fills my surroundings. The ground beneath my feet is dusty and cracked like hard-packed desert sand that has not consumed a drop of rain in several months. I cough away the itch in the back of my throat, and the sound is flat and small like I’m standing in the middle of a domed football field. The world before me, wherever it is, is flat, featureless, and dressed in colors of tan and brown. When I squint against the luminance of the bright twin suns above, even the sky is a faint shade of lightest pink. As my senses come back online, I glimpse Faith to my left, and she moans a little as she stirs. 

Before I can form words, a guttural female voice echoes through my mind.

_*You have come to reset the line.*_

I immediately know who it is.

The First Slayer.

Who else has such a rasping, hissing voice? No one in this century.

I want to reply with my own voice, but my mouth opens and no sound comes out.

Great.

So I resort to using my thoughts. _*Well, duh.*_

_*Wise choice. Without resetting the line, Evil will spread over the Earth.*_

Favoring my injured ankle and still trying to shake off the effects of the dimensional jump, I rise more shakily than I would have liked.

_*Where are we?*_ I have to know.

Faith doesn’t rise from the ground but gives me a quizzical look, pointing to her head before raising questioning hands. She opens her mouth, frowns, and sighs. She isn’t used to magical Willow speak like me and the rest of the Scoobies. 

Faith hears the First Slayer, too, but she has no idea who she is. She’s never met her, and I’ve never told Faith about her. Unless, she’s dreamed about her, too.

_*You are in a space between.*_

Well, that tells me nothing. Forgot how much her cryptic drives me crazy. 

Trying not to sound impatient, I think, _*What does that mean?*_

_*It means that your Watcher orchestrated the spell to send you to a place that will not be harmed by the change you made. . . the change you will make.*_

_*Great. How do we do this thing?*_ Faith’s volume is way too loud, and I make a face, covering my ears. She pushes her lips to the side in apology.

I have to concentrate to hear the First Slayer’s next hissed words. _*You are both damaged. You have cracks in your shell. Like baby birds. Before the line can be reset, you must be healed. Each in your own way.*_

Dusting sand off her jeans, Faith slowly stands to her feet. She slaps her hands together, and the dirt flies. _*That is the most obscure way of telling us what to do. I’m a simple gal. Can’t you be a little bit clearer?*_

_*Silence!*_ A pause. _*You will know what to do.*_

I strain but find I can’t project anything else, and then, I know. The First Slayer is gone. Well, that was a quick visit and run and so not very helpf. . . .

With a snarl, Faith crouches, her leg shooting out and swiping mine out from under me.

What the. . . ?

My ankle screams in agony as I fall, but I manage to melt my movements into a backward roll away from Faith.

I catch a glimpse of a feral look in her eye before she charges me, ducking her head and crashing into my chest. I bring my arms up to shove her away. We fly backward, and I land hard on my back, breath rushing out of my lungs. 

Legs straddling my torso and her left arm pinning my right, she raises her opposite fist and punches me in the face, her knuckles almost dislocating my jaw. 

And then. . . 

. . . fury blooms in my chest. . . fury born from all of the times Faith has hurt me or those I care about, from the cavalier attitude she has about being a Slayer, from how she had me covering for her for the man she murdered, from how she almost killed Angel and contributed to an apoca. . . ended the earth, from how she took over my body and slept with. . . my boyfriend . . . . And she never even apologized. Not once. She didn’t even have the decency to take over the Slayer duties when I died. She should have taken my place, and then, my friends wouldn’t have brought me. . . I’d still be in. . . at peace.

Unbidden anger spreads like wildfire so that my whole body is hot and humming. The pain in my ankle and jaw seem insignificant. 

When she raises her fist to strike me again, her body rises just a little, long enough for me to bend my knees to my upper body and kick out. She hurtles off of me, and though she lands on her feet, she stumbles, giving me time to arch back and jump to my feet. I hardly notice anything but the visceral rage pulsing through my veins. Without thought, I go on the offensive, landing a roundhouse before she can blink. There is a satisfying crunch, and her nose comes away bloody. I grin as she checks to make sure the liquid coming out of her nose is red. Then, she comes at me again.

And we fight.

Driven, neither of us slows down long enough to consider what we’re doing. We kick and punch and leap and tumble until we’re both limping and staggering and covered in cuts and burgeoning bruises. . . neither of us gaining an upper hand. Dust flies all around us, and the only sounds are our soft grunts and heavy breathing as well as the thwack of fists and boots against flesh. 

Time passes, and fatigue overtakes us. We begin to stumble around, our movements becoming sloppier . . . less precise. My breath is ragged and harsh as a broken rib presses into my lung. Blood saturates her shirt, droplets flying through the air when she whirls to strike me.

Instead of landing her hit, she lurches and grabs a handful of my hair, yanking hard. Tears glisten in my eyes at the blinding pain, and then, she has me on my back again, arms restrained over my head and legs held tightly down. Hate flashing in her glare, a smile slowly curves her lips, and she gathers a handful of dirt and stuffs it in my mouth.

Like the other side of a coin, anger flips over into fear and consumes me. A rumble and chattering sounds in the distance. . . a somehow familiar sound, and I choke and sputter. Faith continues to punch me over and over as my body freezes, but I barely feel the pain because I’m somewhere outside of myself almost like I’m looking on. 

I know this too well, and I can beat it back. I don’t have to go all the way there again. 

And then. . . 

Faith rolls off of me to one side, blinking as if a haze is dissipating. She lies on her side, panting and facing away from me, as I hack and spit a combination of metallic blood and gritty sand onto the ground beside me. I collapse back onto the ground, trying to catch my breath and reorient to myself.

Then, Faith pushes herself up, putting her hand to her forehead before running a filthy hand through her disheveled hair. Strangely calm, I watch her stand and face me. She sways as she bends and offers me a hand up. Then, I notice that her face is streaked with tears, wet tracks streaming down her brown and red-smudged cheeks. At the sight of her emotion, I well up, too, and before I realize it, I accept her help to stand. Everything in my body starts to come online, and oh, everything hurts.

Looking into Faith’s eyes, I find myself in her arms, and we hug each other, faltering a bit as we hold each other up. She gives a shaky laugh that’s cut off by a sharp tug and another dazzling light display.

Then, nothing.


	20. Twentieth, Take Care of Each Other

The first sensation I’m mindful of is how sore every muscle in my body feels. Even my eyelids hurt, and I stir, groaning a little to remind myself that I’m alive. I become aware that there is the softest pillow under my head and the warmest cave of sheets and blankets tucked all around me. Stretching my legs, my aching foot and ankle find another leg, and my right arm scrounges up the energy to reach over.

“Welcome back.” A familiar, fatherly British accent finds my ears.

My eyes flash open, and a small smile touches my lips. “Giles. You’re here. . . not in England.”

Face illuminated by the natural light from my bedroom window, he leans forward in the chair by my bedside, glasses in one hand, kind blue eyes crinkling at the corners with happiness. “I came back to help but discovered that I was needed in. . . unexpected ways. How are you feeling?”

“Mmmm. I’m here.” 

Giles touches a gentle hand to my upper arm as I try to sit up but wince at the resurging pain in my ankle. “Don’t try to get up. You need your rest.” 

I gratefully slip back down into my bed’s comforting embrace. “How long was I out?” 

“A few days.”

My stomach rears its head and growls at me. “Must have been.”

“I’ll get you something to eat in a moment.” He slips his glasses back on in a memorable gesture. 

Remembering why I’m injured, I ask, “Did it work?”

“Yes, Buffy, you did it.”

Relief washes over me. “Faith and I did it. I’m not exactly sure how what with the First Slayer and the way out there fight we had. Is Faith okay?”

“She’s fine. . . a bit worse for the wear but totally fine. She left with Wesley and Fred a few hours ago. She’s headed back to prison. . . for a time.”

“How was she? I mean. . . was she. . .”

Giles knows me too well. “She isn’t angry with you, Buffy.”

“And I’m not angry with her. . . not anymore.” I close my eyes for a few seconds. I hadn’t realized how much anger I had in me still. . . about what Faith had done. . . or hadn’t done. 

“I think she knows that. She told me to tell you that she has your back from now on and. . . well, that the First Slayer is a ‘crazy bitch.’” 

Hearing Giles say the words “crazy bitch” makes me chuckle but also grimace at the pain in my ribs. “Ow.”

“You know, Buffy, the line reset. . . but not with you.”

“Huh?” I act surprised, but part of me knew. I need to hear him say it.

“What you did. . . the line reset with Faith.”

My heart skips in trepidation. Am I still a Slayer? “What does that mean?”

“If you die. . . again, no Slayer will rise as a result of your death.”

“But a new girl will become a Slayer if Faith dies.”

He nods his head once in confirmation. “Yes.” 

Giles still hasn’t answered the question that I’m too afraid to voice. Is part of the reason I didn’t wake up for three days because I’m not a Slayer anymore. . . because I’m not healing quickly enough? I’m not sure how I feel about this. Not being a Slayer anymore will change everything. 

Being the observant man that he is, Giles senses my hesitation and clarifies, “You’re still a Slayer, Buffy.”

“Then, why is it taking me so long to heal?” My feelings are too jumbled to sort out.

“Faith was unconscious for a good bit, too. She’s not exactly in top shape now.”

I remember something. “Wait, you said that she’s going back to prison ‘for a time.’ What does that mean?”

The person beside me stirs and turns over, emitting a soft grunt. Dawn. Dawn is resting beside me. I recall that Spike told me that Dawn slept by the Buffybot when I was gone. . . dead. My heart goes to her. She must be so worried that she might lose me again. I didn’t mean to scare her by not keeping her in the loop. Making things up to her will have to be a priority. Poor girl has been let down too much by the people taking care of her.

Giles answers, lowering his voice, “She’s going back to avert the police manhunt, but she and Wesley were talking, and when a sufficient amount of time has passed, they will break her out in a way that allows her to return to slaying without causing such a stir. Frankly, I think it’s a good idea. It’s a waste to have a Slayer stuck in prison, and Faith has changed, it seems.”

I blink. “Oh.” I think I might actually be okay with their plan. I pause for a few seconds and then, “Giles, how were you needed in ‘unexpected ways?’” 

Crossing his arms, he leans back in the chair. “Ah. Now that is a tale.”

“Cliff notes version, please?” I whisper.

He gives me a look like he doesn’t know if he can shorten his story. “Well, let’s see.” He takes his glasses off again and taps one earpiece on his lip. “I began making preparations to come back to Sunnydale after we talked.”

“I remember.” I cringe a little inside at how harsh we had been with one another. 

“I wanted to help you because I heard through my more trustworthy sources at the Council that Anthony and Jonathan took Hanna and were coming to. . .”

I blink. “Make golem-clay-guy-thingies to kidnap Faith and use a witch to banish her to another dimension?”

“Well, not that much detail, but they did ‘borrow’ a young witch from the coven I work closely with, so I knew that their intentions were nefarious.” 

“As Council intentions usually are.” I slip my left arm under my head, elbow pointing out.

“Well. . .” Giles starts to protest my claim, but he cocks his head, “yes.”

“So you came to Sunnydale.”

“Who is telling this story?” He’s annoyed now.

I grin. “You are. Sorry.” 

He returns the grin before resuming his serious face. “When I arrived in Sunnydale, I discovered that you had already left for L.A., and Tara contacted me. Dawn had talked with her about. . . well, about what happened with her accident and Willow’s continued problem. Tara and Dawn asked for my help. Buffy, I should have seen it before when Willow brought you back. Well, I did, but I didn’t pursue it, and I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have left. Not when you were all still struggling so much. I’ll be here for a while. Hanna will be staying with me, and we’re going to help Willow. . . and I’m here for you and Dawn, too.”

I’ve been wanting to hear him say this but realize something with his apology. “No, Giles, you did what you thought was best. You couldn’t have known Willow would develop a deeper problem, and you didn’t know how much I was going through because well, I’m apparently good at hiding it from everyone I care about. . . except Spike. And I really do need to figure out how to handle certain things. . . like parenting my sister if I want her to stay with me and not go to L.A. to live with Dad. I can’t pawn it all off on you.” 

I weakly gesture at the slumbering form beside me. “How’s Dawn?”

“She hasn’t left your side despite our urging to get some rest.” Giles’s tone is affectionate. 

“Guess she finally crashed. You know, I didn’t realize how much Spike took care of her. . . .” 

“Speaking of Spike.” Giles isn’t going to let that one slip by him.

“Yeah?” Does that sound innocuous enough? 

“He’s been living here.”

My eyes light on a lamp from Spike’s crypt just hanging out on my dresser, covered in crypt grime and a few wispy ends of spider webs. I ask anyway, “How do you know?”

“Your closet, for one.” He leans his head toward my closet. 

I muster the energy to lift my head a fraction and note the open closet door with the askew hanging rod and an untidy heap of Spike’s clothes peeking out. Right. My pillow calls me, and I plunk back down. Pain shoots along my cheekbone. 

Giles’s expression remains soft. “I don’t know what it is, Buffy. You always pick the most. . . well, you already know I don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

I lower my gaze from his.

“But I don’t know if I’ll ever think anyone is quite good enough.” My eyes find his again, and he continues, “I. . . care about you, Buffy. . . like you’re my own daughter.” He fidgets with his glasses, both hands in his lap, and his gaze lowers. “Part of me understands why you’re attracted to creatures like Spike and Angel. You’re more than human, and your life won’t exactly ever be white picket fences and bake sales. At the same time, I can’t condone. . .you have to be caref. . . ” At my inhalation of breath, he lifts a finger to stop himself or me, I’m not sure which, and changes tack. “I understand it more than you realize.” He smiles at me then. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

Although I want to ask more questions, I’m not sure he wants to tell me the answers. Somehow, I’m okay with that. Perhaps I’ve had enough revelations for one awakening. . . or maybe a year or two.

So I simply say, “I love you, too, Giles.” 

“You need your rest, Buffy.” He rises from the chair. “I’m going to fix you some soup.” 

At that, my stomach betrays me again and loudly agrees with this plan. 

Bending, Giles kisses my temple and exits the room. 

* * *

My room is filled with the shadows of night when I wake a second time, several hours after my talk with Giles. Dawn is gone. Soft lamplight fans in an arc from the lamp on my dresser, and someone new is sitting in the same chair that was earlier filled with my Watcher.

I’m quiet for a moment, studying the chair’s occupant. He’s leaning on my dresser, his platinum blonde hair almost glowing in the radiance and his eyes focused on a tattered paperback that he holds open with a thumb and finger. A small furrow creases his brow, and I wonder at how he so rarely shows this side of himself. . . the quiet, reflective side. I guess I’m always too caught up in whatever dilemma that I’m facing that I miss it. Maybe I’ve been too afraid to see it.

Spike is so absorbed that I almost hate to break the spell, but I find myself really wanting him to look at me. . . to reassure me that he’s still with me whatever that means.

I manage a soft, “Hey.”

With an inhalation of surprise, his worried eyes fly to my face. “You’re awake, love.” 

“Yeah.” I stretch, scanning my body for pain. Much less. Score one for the Slayer rapid healing abilities.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Feeling much better. Guess I needed a long sleep.” I regret my choice of words as soon as I say them and catch the fleeting sadness in his eyes that he quickly banishes. Pushing myself into a sitting position, I apologize, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Reading a good book?” I nod at the object that is still propped open against his palm. “It’s a good look. Kinda sexy. You should do it more often.” 

If vampires could blush, he would have. He closes the volume, not bothering to mark his place. “Truth be told, pet, I haven’t been able to focus with you laid up. I probably read the same page about a hundred times now waiting for you to wake up.”

“You’ve been waiting?” He wasn’t here earlier, but I’m not sure where I thought he had been.

“Where else would I be?” His gaze is warm on me.

“I dunno. I guess, well, now that things are done with everything, I thought maybe now that things are done with the whole social worker-Slayer line resetting saga and Giles being here and everyone else. . . .” I can’t look him in the eye. Where is this insecurity coming from? 

In a fluid motion, he moves to sit next to me on the bed. With his forefinger, he lifts my chin, forcing me to dive into his sapphire eyes. “You think that after what I overheard you say to Angel that I would let your Watcher get in the way of me being here? Rupert doesn’t scare me, but he headed over to check on Red. Your friends don’t scare me, but Harris and Anya are home, most likely arguing over party favors for the wedding. The only things that frighten the hell out of me are you not waking up and you not meaning what you said.” 

I bite my lip. Did I mean it? I search my hodgepodge of complicated feelings and realize that somehow, I’m not sure how or when, Spike has moved into my heart. Somehow, I’ve gone from seeing him as a soulless monster to seeing him as a person who is loyal to a fault, brave, protective, persistent, intelligent, and utterly stubborn. I reach up to squeeze his hand. “I meant it.”

His relief is tangible. “Good.”

We’re still holding hands when Dawn bounces into the doorway, her long ponytail wildly swinging. “Hey! You’re up!”

I smile at the buoyancy in tone. “Yep. Almost ready to run a marathon, too.”

“Haha.” 

“How’s your arm?” I nod at her cast.

She shrugs. “Better. But bathing with a cast. . . seriously getting old.”

“I can imagine.”

Her smile fades into a scowl, and she crosses her arms, legs in a wide stance. “Now that Buffy’s awake, and Spike is here, too, I have something to say.” 

“Got our full attention, lil Bit.”

“I’m mad at both of you.” She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling in thought. “No, strike that. I’m royally pissed off at both of you.”

“Royally, huh?” Spike is amused.

Dawn glares at him. “We hung out together all summer, and you took care of me while Buffy was gone. You protected me when things got bad. You cooked for me and watched TV with me a-and brushed my hair. Then, Buffy comes back, and you stop talking to me?! How do you think that made me feel?” 

“I know, pet, but when big sis came back, the rest of the Scoobs weren’t exactly welcoming anymore,” Spike says with genuine guilt. 

“That’s not an excuse! It’s not like they liked you all summer. You stuck around then. You told me you promised Buffy you’d protect me and that didn’t mean you should go away if Buffy is around. And don’t say you left to give Buffy space because that’s not an excuse either.”

Spike submits, “You’re right. I shouldn’t have pulled a disappearing act like that. I was shortsighted. Won’t happen again.” He says the words so solemnly that I’m sure that he means every one.

No wonder Dawn was so eager to have Spike back in the house. I witnessed how he was with her over the couple of days when they convinced me of this setting-up-house scheme, but I guess I didn’t realize exactly what he means to my sister. 

Dawn turns her laser eyes on me next. “And you! You didn’t tell me you were going to some alternate dimension to re-do some Slayer line thing. You could have died!” Her eyes go soft with unshed tears. “I could have lost you again.”

I reach out for her, but she retreats. “I’m not finished!” She draws a deep breath, blinks back the tears, and reasserts her stern face. “And how could you not tell me that you’re dating Spike?!”

Though I’m tempted, I decide now is not the time to bring up the stealing. “Well, most people wouldn’t exactly have approved.”

“I wouldn’t care. I *just* got done telling you how much Spike means to me, too! And the soul thing. . . that’s just. . . well. . .” I feel Spike stiffen beside me in what’s becoming a familiar way, and Dawn’s eyes skip to his. She puts the brakes on. . . something. “Let’s just say that Spike cares about both of us. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt us. And he’s. . . different than Angel.”

Spike practically beams at my sister. “Glad *someone* around here noticed.”

I try hard to sound sisterly. . . Giles would be proud. “Dawnie, I’m sorry I didn’t call you about the Slayer thing. I love you and promise to work on being more open and honest with you. . . if you work on the same in return.” 

She knows what I’m talking about, and part of her blaze is doused. Her arms drop to her sides. “Okay.”

“I need to talk with Spike. . . alone. We were sort of in the middle of something.”

She looks from one of us to the other. “Right. Want me to make you some blood and tea?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Eww is all I have to say to that.”

“Blood sounds fine, Bit.”

“Right. Blood for Spike. Tea for Buffy. Coming right up!” She dashes off. Her voice comes tiny from the staircase as she bounds down. “And I’m still pissed!” 

Spike’s grin betrays his feelings for my little sister, and I’m so grateful for his caring toward her. “She always fix your blood for you?”

“When I let her. Did she tell you about the time I told her I like the blood spicy with the burba weed and all and she somehow found and mixed in some of that ghost pepper?”

My eyes grow round. “What did you do?”

“Spent the evening rinsing my mouth with milk and eating Weetabix to tame the inferno.”

I giggle. “Bet you never asked for spicy again.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Nope. Or I fixed it myself.” 

Spike is excellent with the distraction, but I’m not letting him get away with it this time. My feelings really have changed though because I decide to ease him in rather than pounding him over the head with demanding questions. 

Curling on my side with one hand propping up my head, I ask, “So how did we get back here? I’m assuming everyone came here after.”

“Yeah. How’d we get back? You were both out and bloodied up. I carried you despite Harris’s protests, and he carried Faith.”

“Bet Anya gave him an earful when she heard that.”

His grin is way too enthusiastic as he nods. “More than.”

“How did I get clean?”

“Bathtub.”

“How?”

He sighs. “Don’t worry. I didn’t do anything untoward to your unconscious body. Nibblet supervised. None of the rest gave me too much flack though I wouldn’t have cared if they had.”

“And who bathed and stitched up Faith?”

He rolls a finger around my pinky. “Don’t know. Wasn’t focused on her, love. Just you.” His voice is quiet and deep. 

I’m not quite ready to go there yet. “The Slayer line is with Faith.”

“I heard.” He waits, listening.

“I’m actually okay with that. And I’m glad I’m still a Slayer.”

“Are you? Didn’t have some fantasy about being a normal girl?”

I shake my head. “I’m coming to realize that no one has a normal life. Mine just happens to be a little more abnormal than most.” Spike lets me continue, “The First Slayer was there. . . well, not really there but in my head and in Faith’s. She said that we were in the space between or something like that. She said Faith and I had cracks. . . like sidewalks or something and that was causing problems but not problems with the Slayer line exactly. With the fighting, it’s a little blurry. I think I figured it out though.” I push my hand further into Spike’s. He responds by lacing his fingers with mine. “The First Slayer did something to us. She made us channel our anger at one another. . . so much so that I lost my ability to think. It was really. . . primal. And Faith and I. . . we got lost in it. . . . I wanted to destroy her, and she wanted to destroy me. But I don’t think that’s what it was about.”

“What do you think it was about, pet?”

“I think it was about me getting in touch with the anger I have now. I think I have so much anger in me that I’ve. . . that I’ve been stuffing inside and trying to ignore. Put on a happy face and keep going, you know?”

“Makes a lot of sense to me. Seen you doing it.”

“All that anger has to go somewhere, right? I think mine’s been coming out all sideways.” Like toward you because you’ve been an easy punching bag. I study his fingers woven with mine. “And that hasn’t been right. Not when you’ve been there for me.”

Spike remains uncharacteristically silent, waiting for me. . . not wanting to mark the apology or maybe afraid to.

“And I think I need to be in touch with the anger. Remember Kendra?” I know he does because he referenced her in L.A.

“Well, it’s not every night a guy faces two Slayers and ends up in a wheelchair.” 

Not exactly what I was going for. I decide not to take the bait. . . or bring up that Dru killed Kendra. “Well, I had a talk with her about emotions. . . about anger. She was insistent that a Slayer does best when she clears her mind or is all Zen or something like that. Well, I told her that what helps me is being in touch with my emotions. . . that my anger gives me the fire and spontaneity to win the fight. And later, she told me something that I forgot about until recently. I think I was going on about wanting a normal life and about how being a Slayer is a job, and she said that I shouldn’t say that because being a Slayer is who I am. And you know what? She’s right.”

His eyes are deep and penetrating when I look up, and I know he gets it. . . know he gets me. Then, he does that little movement with his jaw that has the power to make me melt or drive me crazy. “I happen to like the fire in you. . . in more ways than one.” 

I lightly punch his arm. Maybe we’re a little too much alike. “Hold on. I’m going somewhere with this. Anyway, I think the First Slayer meant that I need to get back in touch with that. . . channel it differently so that my fighting will get back on track. I need to figure out how to let my friends know that I’m angry with them. . . even if that means them hurting for a little while. . . so I can find my equilibrium again. Mend my cracks.”

“And Faith?”

I give him a look. “I have *no* idea why Faith’s so pissed off.” I cock my head. “Well, maybe I do.” 

Spike chuckles. 

“Okay. Your turn.”

He drops my hand and puts his hands on his thighs for a moment, deep in thought. I watch as he stands, paces across my small bedroom floor a couple of times before stopping again. Normally, I might snap at him or throw a figurative or literal punch, but I wait out his small nervous burst of energy. 

He closes his eyes and somehow seems so vulnerable that I want to hug him. 

Eyelids still unopened, he takes a deep breath and starts, “So you know how Anya caught us in the Magic Box?”

“Uh huh?” 

“And she had that book in her hand. And then, there’s the whole thing with Fred and Anya in L.A. and then, back again at the Magic Box.”

“And just now with Dawn?”

“You got that, huh?”

“Spike, just tell me!” 

He still won’t even glance at me. “So the project they were working on was for me.”

I blink. “What project?”

“Not magic because. . . well, because after what happened to you.” He shakes his head, studying his feet. “Using magic that way, there’s always consequences. . . and usually not very pleasant ones.”

I can’t stand this. . . can’t see him looking like he’s afraid I’m going to crush him like I have so many times before. Ignoring the remaining aches and tears in my body, I push aside the bed covers and move to wrap my arms around his midsection. “I’m not going anywhere.” He trembles in my arms but then stops. “Tell me about your project.” I rest my chin on his chest and force reluctant eye contact. “I want to know.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you. . . not unless it got properly sorted. . . unless there was a good way to go about it. I wanted to do it right and proper. . . not the way Angel came about it ‘cause well, that wouldn’t be very practical.”

I lose my patience when he mentions Angel, especially after I’d been so careful not to mention Dru, and I release him but catch my temper before moving too quickly away. I don’t want to leave him feeling alone. “Spike, what are you talking about? Just spit it out. . . in English! Please?”

“I want you to know that I started researching this partly for you but also partly for myself. . .” His laugh is short and low before he corrects himself, “Who am I kidding? It started out mostly for you, but the more I looked into it, I realized that maybe part of me wants it for me, too.” Blue meets green then, and my heart starts beating faster. “I like who I am when I see myself in your eyes. . . in Dawn’s eyes.”

“You want what? And how does this relate to Angel?” The answer is blooming in my mind, but I want him to spell it out for me.

He says the next words so softly that I barely hear them, “I wanted to find a way to get my soul back.”

After Dawn’s slip and Spike’s rambling speech, I kind of knew what he was going to say, but the realization hits me in the gut as my emotions swirl all over the place. “Wow. . . that’s just. . . wow.” 

He’s so sensitive to my reactions that hurt passes across his features. I stroke his arm to reassure him. “I have so many questions. First of all, when did you decide this? Did they find a non-magical way. . . you and Anya and Fred? And not in the whole moment-of-happiness-soul-goes-poof way?”

He nods his head, still uncertain. “I started thinking about it after you got back. Started thinking that maybe William might not be a bad bloke to have around.”

Spike speaks about his soul in the third person, and my mind immediately goes to my Angel-Angelus mantra. Angelus is not Angel. Angel is not Angelus. This doesn’t seem to hold much water anymore as I remember what Spike told me about William. . . what a good person he was before he was turned. . . unlike Liam who was full of himself. . . kind of like Angelus. And maybe just maybe William has more of an influence on Spike than he realizes. I see it in how he treated Dru. . . how he treats Dawn and me. It’s striking me that Spike is an anomaly among vampires. . . even more so than Angel.

These thoughts flash through my mind in an instant, and I find myself even more present with Spike than ever before as he continues, “I started researching on my own and then asked for help. It took a while, but yeah, we found a way. A demon in South Africa.”

“How does that not involve magic?”

“Well, I’d have to go there and. . . earn it. In trials.”

“Sounds dangerous.” I want to offer to go with him, but something stops me. Maybe it’s how serious he’s being about the whole thing. Maybe it’s because he is not just doing it for Dawn and me but for himself, too.

He rubs the back of his head. “It is. . . well, at least we think it will be. There’s not a lot of information out there about the what and how of it. ”

Worry and fear rush through me but not for the reason I expected, not because I’ve been relying on him. I’m afraid for him, but my words don’t convey it. “When will you go? Wait, were you going to go and not tell me?” 

He hesitates.

“You were!” I playfully whack him a second time. “You better be glad you didn’t.”

His eyes glint at me, and he arches one eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

I can’t help myself then, and my lips find his. He lets me guide the kiss at first, and I try to convey my growing feelings for him. . . the change in my perceptions of who he is. . . as a man. He deepens the kiss then for a brief moment, and desire sweeps through my core. He breaks the contact first, our lips hovering so close that our energies almost hum. I want more than anything to feel his weight against mine. . . to pull him onto the bed and make love to him for the first time.

Spike’s tone tells me that he senses the change in me and almost can’t believe what he feels from me, “Buffy, I. . .”

A cheerful voice sings out, “Sorry to interrupt the smooch-a-thon, but I come bearing beverages!” 

My sister leans with her head and body against the door frame, a smile of contentment on her face as she watches us. Don’t quite know when she got so stealthy. . . must have picked up something from being around the slayage. Not sure if that’s good or not. She balances a tray laden with mugs and a pile of cookies atop her now sling-free cast, and I smell a melding of the scents of chamomile tea and blood. 

Spike smiles at my sister and takes the tray from her. “Thanks, Bit.”

“Welcome.” She reinserts her arm in her sling.

Spike carries the tray to the bed as Dawn smoothes out the sheets and plops down. She joins him, pulling both legs up under her until she sits cross-legged. She hands him a napkin, and he grabs a cookie, dunking it in his cup. As she pushes her teabag under the hot liquid in her mug, she smiles at him. He grins back. I marvel again at the ease between them. 

My sister looks up at me. “Don’t just stand there.” She pats the comforter. 

My legs find their ability to move, and I find myself joining their little picnic, picking up my mug and swirling the tea bag in the hot water. My knee brushes Spike’s thigh, and he holds his cookie in his mouth long enough to gently squeeze my leg. Dawn passes me a cookie, and I take the proffered pastry. I admire the chocolate chip-dough ratio and the crispy edges. . . just the way Dawn and I like them.

They taste just as good as they look, too. “So who made the cookies?” I say around a mouthful of deliciousness.

Dawn looks pleased. “Spike did.” She takes a giant bite, and a little melted chocolate sticks to her upper lip. She licks it off and adds, “While you were sleeping.”

“Really?”

Spike smirks and takes a sip of blood. “Yeah, well.”

Holding her mug on her knee, Dawn is eager to share, “He made cookies a lot, actually. . . when everyone else was out patrolling or doing other grown up research-y stuff that I wasn’t invited to. He followed Mom’s old recipe. . . you know the one with the secret ingredient that she thought we never figured out?”

“Mom’s recipe?” I knew they tasted familiar. 

My sister nods. “We made them together. . . mostly when I was feeling down about. . . you and Mom. There were a lot of middle of the night bake offs.” 

I don a look of horror. “On school nights?”

She glances between Spike and me. Spike is nonplussed, but Dawn hastily amends, “W-well, no, only on weekends and holidays.” 

I smile gently at her and sweep a loose hair behind her ear. “Don’t look so serious. I’m kidding. I’m glad that you had each other.” 

She returns the smile. “I’m glad we all have each other.”

We sip and eat and relax in silence for a few minutes. 

“Erm, whatever happened to the cameras?” I turn my head behind me, straining to see the corner where I remember the camera being mounted.

“All gone,” Dawn assures me. “Thank goodness. And guess what Giles discovered when he went through the house?”

“What?”

Spike speaks up, “Seems there was an extra camera that wasn’t really part of the Watchers’ setup.”

“Yeah,” my sister says, “It was in the garden gnome in the front yard. And there was another one in the Magic Box.”

My forehead wrinkles in my confusion. “Garden gnome? We don’t have a garden gnome.” 

Spike sighs. “Apparently, you do. Well, you did. Short version. Giles and Glinda tracked down the owners of said cameras. Warren was spying on you. He’s now in lockup for theft and aggravated assault. Remember the frozen bloke from the museum?”

I nod.

“Warren was responsible. His little cronies confessed to everything in exchange for probation. You don’t have to be worried about them messing with you anytime soon.” 

“Thank God.” 

Then, Dawn changes the subject, “Did Spike tell you about the soul thing yet?”

“What? Yes!” I narrow my eyes at the vampire on my right. “Did everyone know about this before me?”

Spike scrutinizes the ceiling for a moment. “Let’s see.” He ticks off his fingers as he lists names, “Anya, Fred, Dawn, and Giles. Nope, not everyone.”

My mouth gapes. “Giles knew?!”

The corner of Spike’s mouth quirks up at my surprise. “Well, yeah, but only recently.” 

My fingers fiddle with my big toe. “No wonder he didn’t. . . he was so. . .easy on me about you living here when I saw him earlier.”

Spike shrugs. “Might be why. Don’t know. Don’t care. I’ll take it.”

Dawn ducks her head. “I just hope you’re careful. How long will you be gone?”

Spike softens at her worry. “Don’t know, love. But I promise to come back, and you know I keep my promises.”

“You promise?” She sounds a little reassured but also uncertain.

He briefly squeezes her shoulder. “I promise.” 

I know she’s afraid to lose someone else she cares about. 

So am I.

She traces a thumb over the handle of her mug. “Are you scared?” 

“Yeah. But I think that’s a good thing because it means I’ll be on my toes no matter what they throw at me.” He’s always honest with my sister. . . ever since the night they discovered she was the Key together. “And I’m more than a little scared about what the soul’s gonna do to me. Done a lot of bad things, pet, and it might eat me up for a while. But I also promise it won’t take me forever to work through it. . . not when I know that you’re waiting for me.”

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can think, but I know without a doubt that I mean them.

“Come home. We’ll take care of you.”

His eyes are full of wonder as he smiles at me, and I can’t believe how happy I feel for the first time in a long time.


	21. Epilogue the First, Three Months Later

The breeze is light and cool against my face as I walk home from a night out on patrol. Clouds cover the moon, and the street lights are a dull yellow, the trees and fences casting deep shadows along the familiar streets of my sleepy neighborhood. 

Bringing flashlights, Willow and Xander joined me for patrol, per new usual routine, and for some reason, we ran into a cluster of eight nasty vampires. When I say nasty, I mean haven’t-bathed-since-last-decade nasty. 

So despite the darkness, I’m particularly grateful for the fresh air, and the wind to sweep away the stench that emanates from my new jeans and blouse. Luckily, I didn’t wear a jacket. Jeans and top I can wash, but Dawn and I still can’t afford the dry cleaning bill even though we’re both working. Ironically, my job is at one of the boutiques where Dawn had sticky fingers. Dawn is babysitting for the neighbors. We pool our money to pay the bills, including Dawn’s debts from stealing. 

My friends were a big help tonight despite Willow still being on no-spell mode and Xander being weepy from his break up with Anya before their wedding. They crashed together at Xander’s place to clean up and rest for work tomorrow, Xander at the construction site of the new high school and Willow with Giles and Hanna to work on magic stuff. Willow has been couch-surfing for a while to avoid her parents who weren’t so good with the needed TLC. She and Tara have tentatively been talking again, and Willow is heading to England next week with Giles, Hanna, and maybe Tara to continue her training with more support and less temptation than at the hellmouth. 

I still can’t believe Xander and his construction crew are rebuilding the school over the hellmouth, but Dawn is excited to be starting high school in a brand spanking new set of buildings next year. I’m trying not to be a complete control freak about it already because Dawn is still not done with this school year, but I’m not sure it’s working because I made Dawn a Slayer survival kit for her locker and am saving up for us to get cell phones.

My flashbacks and nightmares are much improved, and it helps that on the bad nights that I can slip on one of Spike’s soft t-shirts and surround myself in his scent. My emotions are realigning themselves, too, and each day, I feel one step closer to being content with being back in the land of the living. 

I started seeing a therapist at the university psychology clinic where they offer sliding scale fees based on income. My therapist’s in the know about what goes on in Sunnydale because somehow, I saved her little brother from being killed by some demons that attacked the local movie theater. Slaying in a small town has its perks sometimes. 

She’s also an advanced enough grad student that she doesn’t have to record all her sessions, so I’m free to talk about whatever with confidentiality. I signed a release of information, so she talked with Giles, too, who verified my story. She knows about me being pulled out of heaven by my friends, and she’s helped me sort out my thoughts and feelings enough to have the tough conversations with everyone involved. Honestly, the heavy conversations have made us all closer. 

I think about Spike every day and wonder where he is. I wonder less whether he’s accomplished his goal of attaining a soul and more about when I’ll see him again. He and I are so tactile with one another that when I get in touch with my feelings for him, I feel the emotions in my body. . . in my heart, stomach, and gut. We didn’t really talk more about feelings before he left, and part of me wishes we had. More than anything I want him home, so I can make sure he’s okay. . . that the soul hasn’t destroyed who he is. I don’t often ruminate about this, but in quiet moments, sometimes the apprehension sneaks in before I can catch it. His Zippo is a constant in my pocket, the tiny weight a reminder that he is here with me whether I’m patrolling or working or hanging out at the Magic Box. Part of me thinks that he will come back as long as I have his lighter.

I shake my head as if I can pour the thoughts out of my mind and round the corner onto Revello Drive. A bright light beckons me home from the sea of darkness. Dawn always turns on the porch light for me. My stomach growls, and I start imagining the meal I’ll create out of the many leftovers crowding the refrigerator, including grabbing a cold chicken wing or two to tide me over while I shower. Before I go to sleep, I’ll follow my nightly routine and check the yard for signs of Spike. 

Thinking about food and a shower gives me energy.

Hopping up the steps to the front porch, I unlock the door and push into the house, remembering to be quiet at the last minute. Dawn’s probably sleeping. Humming a little to myself, I amble into the kitchen and pull open the refrigerator door. 

As I survey the options, the back door flies open, and I jump back, grabbing the stake off the counter behind me where I left it and falling into a ready stance.

Dawn is flustered and hardly notices that I almost tackled her for crashing into the house.

“Buffy!”

I lower the stake as annoyance takes the place of fight mode. “What are you doing? It’s 3 AM! Why aren’t you in bed?” 

“Buffy. It’s Spike. He’s back.”

My best parent hat slips off. “What? Where is he?” Unfiltered emotion tumbles through me. 

“Back here. He’s not quite. . . well, just come.” She tugs my hand and pulls me through the back door to the yard where the white light casts a ghostly glow over the foliage and lawn furniture. I barely make out a dark form curled up in one of the loungers.

Rushing off the porch, I slow as I approach the unmoving figure. My legs fold under me as I kneel next to him. The light reflects off of what’s left the bleach in his looser curls, and he’s always been trim, but now he appears even thinner. He must be starving. 

He’s filthy, but I don’t care. I am, too. I reach out to stroke his cool cheek, and at my touch, he startles and opens his eyes. I draw my hand back. His blue eyes are dull and dark in the shadows, but I can tell he recognizes me.

“Spike? It’s me, Buffy.”

He blinks at me, his eyelids moving too slowly. 

Dawn joins me, the calf of her right leg touching mine. 

“How did you find him?” I ask her.

“He was here when I came home from babysitting Thomas. . . around 10:30.” She pauses, knowing I’m asking for more than the time. “I always check the front and back when I get home. . . just in case.” 

I glance at her and smile. “Me, too.” 

Spike makes a small noise as if he’s trying to clear his throat. His voice hitches, “Buf-fy?”

“Yes. It’s me. I’m here. Dawn’s here, too. You made it. . . you made it back.”

“Hi,” my sister chimes in and gives a little wave. “We missed you.”

Spike’s eyes track the movement. “M-missed you.” I’m not sure if he’s echoing what Dawn’s saying or if he’s really truly here with us.

“Are you hungry? You must be hungry. Dawn and I have been stocking blood off and on for weeks to make sure we always have fresh blood. . . just in case.”

At the mention of blood, his face starts to shift, but he can’t manage it. 

“Dawn, bring me two of those packets.” She’s up and running before I even finish the sentence, so I call after her, “Make that three! And a knife!”

His pale hand rests by his face, and I reach for it, but he pulls away and gives a jerky shake of his head. Confused, I sit back as Dawn returns with four or five pouches of cold blood. She passes one to me, and I squeeze the blood to the bottom and slice open the top corner with the knife she slaps on my palm. The blood is black in the dim light, and I upturn the packet, pouring a little of the refrigerator-thickened liquid onto his lips. 

With effort, he licks his lips and then eagerly opens his mouth for more. I press the pouch to his lips and upturn it so he gets more and faster. Soon enough, he’s sucking hard and fast on the pig’s blood. Not too long ago, I was disgusted by this, but I’m not now. I’m relieved that he’s so responsive. By the time he finishes the first portion, Dawn has the next one ready and waiting. 

Spike finishes four before he turns his head to signal that he’s done. He struggles to sit up then, and I’m so glad when he allows me to hold one of his arms to help him. He teeters a little, so I slide onto the chair next to him, and Dawn follows suit on his other side, our arms crossing one another to circle around Spike’s waist. 

“Spike, Dawn and I are going to help you inside. Think you can stand up?”

His voice is stronger. . . more sure. “Yeah.”

On a count of three, we stand with more ease than I expected, and Spike is able to put one foot in front of the other as we maneuver our way back into the house. My eyes slowly adjust to the brightness of the kitchen, and Dawn kicks the back door shut with the toe of her sneaker. 

“Should we go in the living room?” Dawn asks, moving her legs under her like she’s standing on the subway and it’s started moving. 

“Good plan.”

Spike is silent as we shuffle and side step to the living room, and he doesn’t even make a sound of protest or pain as he sinks back into the cushions of the sofa. Dawn and I survey him. His face is gaunt. The blood that is smeared across his lower lip is a harsh red against the grey of his skin. He’s not wearing the clothes he left in, and he didn’t exactly pack a suitcase, so I have no idea where he got the ripped grey jeans and the white T-shirt with a faded blue penguin design. His skin is streaked with grime and dirt, and he’s covered with cuts and bruises that haven’t quite healed because he hasn’t been eating. The clothes drape on him like he’s a hanger that’s too small, but he still has his Doc Martens. . . the one trace of his old self that doesn’t seem to be gone. He left his leather duster here, folded up in my closet. 

Unbidden, tears prick alive in my eyes. I didn’t expect him to be this. . . .

“He looks terrible. Like he’s starving. . . literally. Buffy, what’s wrong with him?” Dawn sounds scared now that she’s viewed him in the lamplight. 

“I don’t know.” My voice is soft as I squat beside him. I do my best to push aside my feelings. . . to sound more sure. “Spike?”

“Mmmm.” My heart lifts a little because this sound reminds me of how he used to sound when he was sleeping and I poked him awake.

“You made it back.” 

He coughs, his chest rising up, and then, he blinks, his eyes slits. “Rest n. . .now.”

My eyes fill again, but I lean down to kiss his forehead and smooth back his curls. “Resting is good. You’ll heal faster that way. Dawn and I. . . we’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Buffy, go shower and eat. I’ll stay with Spike,” Dawn commands, pulling up a chair closer to the couch. I wonder where her new confidence comes from. Could it be from the babysitting? I know it’s more than that.

Playing with my fingers, I hesitate and then decide to listen. I really do stink. “Right.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, I plunge into the bathroom, throw my dirty clothes into the plastic laundry bin, and shower faster than I ever have, scrubbing fast and hard at the dirt and grime. After drying off, I run the wide-toothed comb through my wet blonde hair and scamper downstairs again to grab a plate of chicken wings and pour myself a Tab. I only slow once I reach the doorway to the living room. Dawn has turned off all the lights but one. 

“How’s he doing?” I whisper.

Dawn lifts her head, her expression grim. “Dunno. But I think he’s asleep.” 

Spike’s head is turned toward the back of the sofa, features softened and relaxed. I want so badly to lay down next to him and hold him in my arms, but I don’t because I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. . . or that he’ll push me away due to whatever state he’s in. 

“And he’s kind of odiferous like you were earlier.” She holds her nose and waves her hand.

I shrug. “I’ve smelled worse.”

Dawn gives me a knowing look. “True.”

I set my plate and glass on the end table and move the coffee table so that I can squeeze the other comfy chair next to Dawn’s. I offer my sister a chicken wing. “Camp out?”

She accepts the wing, pulling a little piece of meat off. “Camp out.”

After we eat, Dawn finds some blankets in the hall closet, drapes one over Spike, hands me one, and unfurls one for herself. We curl up under the soft fabric, and we watch Spike sleep. Dawn falls into dreamland before I do, and I keep watch over my sister and vampire until the sun starts to spread small rays across the living room floor from behind the closed curtains. 

Somehow, knowing we’re together brings me peace.

Before I know it, my heavy eyes close, and I’m lost in sleep.

* * *

Spike isn’t there when I wake up. Instead, I hear the faint sound of something being sprayed. . . multiple times in quick succession. The brightness of the light in the room tells me that the day is well into afternoon. My limbs ache from being balled up in the chair that is distinctly less comfortable after sleeping in it for who knows how many hours.

Dawn’s back is to me, and the spraying continues. I catch the faint scent of something familiar that I can’t quite name.

“Dawn, what are you doing?”

Dawn practically shoots out of her skin. Then, she grins and holds up a bottle. “Febrezing the sofa. I already tried wiping it down. Got most of the stains out but the smell. . . not so much.”

“Ah.” That makes sense. “Where’s Spike?”

She points at the ceiling. “Showering.”

The blanket falls away as I sit up. “Did you talk to him?”

“What? Yeah.” She wavers. 

“What did he say?”

“Not much. He told me he was going to clean up, and he made it up there by himself. I got him some clean clothes from your closet and threw his dirty stuff in the wash. That’s the extent of it.”

“He didn’t say what happened to him? If he got. . . got. . .” I’m scared to say it because honestly, in the three months he’s been gone, I’ve realized it doesn’t really matter all that much if his soul is returned. What matters to me is that he pursued it himself. . . that he tried.

Dawn’s gaze refocuses behind me, and I hastily turn the direction she’s looking to see Spike slowly descending the stair. He seems so much better after a night of sleep. The bruises and cuts are more faded, and his regular clothes, albeit too big, look much better on him. I can tell that he even found his hair products because his half-bleached curls are damp but more tamed. His eyes are still tired but something is alive in them again. . . something intense and real. 

As he reaches the bottom step, I can’t wait anymore, and I move to hug him, throwing my arms around his chest and hugging him tightly, not minding that his ribs are poking through his skin against my face. He emits a quiet oof and doesn’t immediately return the embrace, but then, his thin arms are around me, one hand stroking my back. His chin lands on top of my head, and then, I feel Dawn at my side, hugging both of us. Spike’s hand leaves my back, probably to hug my sister because she ends up closer to me. 

“You look better.” My voice is muffled due to the tight squeeze. 

“I feel better.” He still sounds exhausted. 

“You’re probably hungry again. You’re too skinny,” Dawn says. “Want me to heat you some blood?”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

Dawn disentangles her long limbs and dashes to the kitchen.

I’m about to take advantage of our moment alone to ask him a question, but he stops me with, “Gotta sit down, pet.”

“S-sure.” 

He leans on me heavily on the way to the kitchen but moves himself onto one of the stools without difficulty. He doesn’t complain when I perch on the stool next to him, my thigh brushing his. 

The microwave dings, and Dawn pulls out a mug of blood. She sets the drink in front of him and turns to make a pot of coffee. Spike steadily sips the blood although I can tell he would prefer to drink faster. After a few minutes, he finishes the mug and accepts another one as Dawn pours me a cup of black coffee. Dawn pours milk and sugar into hers and leans on the breakfast island across from us.

Spike speaks first. “So you have a lot of questions.” 

“How did you get back from wherever?” Dawn asks.

“Boat. Couldn’t take a plane from where I was coming from, and there wasn’t a handy stock of pig’s blood on hand. It’s why. . .”

“You’re starving. . . like literally?” my sister supplies for him.

“Well, yeah. . . that and I really wasn’t all that hungry anyway. . . what with the. . . the state I was in. Still not all that. . . well, my body tells me otherwise.” He deliberately takes a gulp of blood.

“The state you were in. . . what does that mean?” I wonder. Does that mean you got your soul? Dawn and I are both too nervous to ask him out right.

“The demon. . . the one in South Africa. Let’s just say the trial was beyond what I expected. And there was more than one of the bloody things. Left me a bit of a mess after. . . but that didn’t matter. None of what I went through mattered because I got what I was there for.” He inclined his head to peer at me. “It didn’t matter because my soul was worse than any of the trials set forth before me.”

Instead of feeling happy for him, I feel sick. I’m scared to ask, but I do because I have to know. “What do you mean?” There’s an internal war within me between longing to reach out and hold him and fearing that if I do so, he won’t open up.

His blue eyes fix on mine with intensity. “It’s inside me now. . . reminds me of everything I’ve done. All the horrible. . . things.” He closes his eyes to me, his jaw tight. “And I couldn’t. . . can’t escape it.” Holding his mug in both hands, he leans over the table, isolating himself from Dawn and me even though we’re right there with him. 

After several seconds, he seems to gather himself although he doesn’t change position. “The hunger turned out to be a blessing in disguise. When it got strong enough, I didn’t feel anything anymore.”

Not sure whether he’ll push me away, I gingerly run a hand over his slumped back. “You have us now.”

He trembles beneath my touch, and I see a single tear slip over his cheek. 

Dawn has forgotten her coffee. “And we’re not going anywhere, Spike. We’ll take care of you like you took care of us.”

* * *

I call in sick to work, and Dawn is luckily off from school for a teacher in-service day, but I don’t call Xander, Willow, Giles, or anyone else to tell them Spike is back yet. I selfishly want the time just for the three of us.

Dawn and I spend the day with Spike, hanging out with him, watching movies, and catching him up about Sunnydale goings on. We even have hot chocolate with the little marshmallows that my mom used to fix for him, and we play silly board games. Dawn and I hug him a lot and try to make sure he keeps drinking blood. He smiles and even chuckles a time or two, but the pain in his eyes remains unremitting. 

I would do anything to take the pain away, and I wonder if that’s how he’s felt about me and Dawn in the past.

Night time arrives before we even recognized that the sun was setting, and Dawn yawns and stretches. She is reluctant to leave us, but she finally relents to the fatigue and changes into her pajamas without showering, hugging me and kissing Spike on the cheek before retiring to her room. I notice that exhaustion has overtaken Spike as well, and bracing himself on the chair, he pushes himself up from the floor where he’s been lounging while we played games. 

“Tired?” I ask the obvious and follow his motion to stand.

“Understatement, pet.”

I’m nervous to ask the next question as so much time has passed and the ease between us is gone. Somehow I find the courage and skip the query. “Come on.” I scoop up his hand in mine and tug him gently toward the stairs. 

“You’re sure?”

I don’t know how to read his words. Is he asking because he doesn’t know what’s between us anymore or because he doesn’t believe he deserves this kindness and care?

I stroke the back of his hand with my free one and try to show him how earnest I am. “Of course, I’m sure. How I said I felt. . . how I feel. It hasn’t changed.”

Something akin to a cross between disbelief and release shifts in his eyes. “Okay.”

He follows me upstairs and into my bedroom where he sits on the edge of my bed, holding his ribs as if his heart might fall out if he lets go. I tug off his shoes, but he won’t let me touch the rest of his clothing. He seems to have just enough energy to slip under the covers. He is so forlorn that I find myself hurrying as if that will make him feel better. 

Feeling shy, I move behind him and quickly change into my pajamas before slipping under the covers. I push my backside up against him and pull his arm around me, running my fingers over his forearm to find and lace my fingers through his. He sighs then and his whole body relaxes against me. 

My mind has a hard time computing the change in Spike from the snarky vampire who was always trying to bed me and this new soulful Spike who seems so lost. 

I can relate to that lost feeling, and I remember the tenderness Spike showed me the night I dug my way out of my grave. 

I duck my head and kiss his hand. 

He shivers, and I turn under the blanket to face him and hold him close. Our limbs tangle together in a comfortable pile like coming home, and my head on his chest, I fall asleep. 

* * *

I wake up flying through the air. 

It’s like a dream when I’m falling, but the weightless feeling is happening in reality and my face is stinging.

Out of instinct, I hit the rug in a roll and thump into my bedroom wall before scrambling up, heart pounding in my chest.

Wide awake, I barely make out Spike where he crouches in the shadows. In full vampire mode, he growls at me, eyes glowing yellow.

Ignoring the pain in my jaw, I approach him with caution, keeping my voice low and calm. “Spike?”

He growls again when I’m a few feet away, and I stop.

Slowly, I hunker to get on his level. Head cocked, he watches me like I’m some sort of prey, which in whatever state he’s in, I probably am.

We stay motionless for several seconds.

Then, Spike lashes out at me again, fist striking flesh, and I careen into the bed, shoving the headboard hard into the drywall. 

Stars fly into my vision.

I blink them away and start to move in an instant.

And in that same instant, I hear a soft sobbing coming from Spike’s direction. He’s gone from fight mode to curl-in-a-ball mode in seconds, his forehead smooth again. I crawl over to him as he rocks back and forth, his cries muffled by his knees. My left leg goes around behind him, and I pull myself up close to him, holding him and moving with him. As he allows the touch, I rub his arms until his body goes still and his crying ceases. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispers, back to himself. “Had a b-bloody nightmare.”

“It’s okay,” I return, my face pressed into his back. “Been there, done that.”

“Been having a lot of them. . . ‘bout things I’ve done. Vivid things.” He reaches for my hand, and I willingly receive the touch. “Wake up and it’s like I’m in the middle of whatever it was all over again.”

“Well, they’re not happening now. And you did those things a long time ago before. . . you changed.” 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced. 

Not breaking physical contact, I move in front of him so he can see the seriousness in my eyes. “You know that you changed before the soul, right, Spike? You made changes. . . you chose to do differently. The chip may have helped you, but you chose it in the end.”

He sighs again. 

I continue, “And we’re going to get through this. You got me through my hallucinations and trauma stuff. I’m going to get you through yours.” 

“It’s a bit different, pet. Might take longer being that I have almost a century of bad stuff that I’ve done.”

“But you’re also a little bit like me. We’re not exactly the broody type.”

He manages a small sound of mirth, but I’ll take it. 

We stay there with one another for several minutes until Dawn appears in the doorway. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” I reassure her. 

She rubs an eye. “I thought I heard fighting. Or crashing or something. At first, I thought it was a dream, but then, I woke up.”

“We’re okay, Bit,” Spike confirms, sounding much more like himself than he has all day. “Big sis is helping me with some side effects of the soul.”

“Oh.” Her tone tells me that she understands because she’s been through something, too, losing Mom and me. A few seconds later, she asks, “Now that we’re up, anyone want to bake cookies?”

The corner of Spike’s mouth almost imperceptibly goes up. “Cookies it is.”


	22. Epilogue the Second, Three More Months Later

Spike gently pushes aside my now long hair and kisses my neck as I stand by the mirror and slide my earrings through their respective holes. I can’t help but giggle.

His lips hovering over my skin, he asks, “What’s so funny, love? Ticklish?” 

“You don’t have a reflection.” Maybe I’m getting used to his lack of reflection now.

“Kind of like I’m invisible.” 

My breath catches in my throat, and I shiver at the memory of the time when I was invisible. . . such a freeing experience. Well, before the whole almost disintegrating piece, but the unseen sex was kinky. My mind starts going all kinds of places, but I manage, “Kinda like.”

Spike and I haven’t actually taken our intimacy to that level since he came back, and I’m not sure why. Part of me knows that he’s still struggling with the soul even though the night terrors have lessened and the haunted look in his eye isn’t as prominent as often. I still catch him staring off into space, caught up in some thought or memory that he doesn’t always share. 

The other part of me thinks that some of the reason is me, too. I mean, Spike went and got a soul. My therapist says that the depression I’ve had makes me see myself in a negative light, but I don’t know. I struggle to see how I’m worthy of him now. I understand the logic of the situation, but the emotional side. . . not so much. Look how I’ve treated him in the past. One speech to Angel doesn’t make up for years of insults and doubts and pushing him away. So I beat myself up. . . metaphorically that is. 

I don’t tell Spike. I don’t want him to feel guilty for something that isn’t his fault and I’m a little afraid he’ll try to take care of me when I’m supposed to be taking care of him. It’s something I have to take care of myself. My therapist is working on this with me, and we’re making headway. But how do I break through the barrier that’s in place between us now?

I miss the intensity of our passion, and I know when we do. . . find our way back to physical intimacy again, it will mean so much more than it ever did before. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” he whispers against the skin close to my ear. 

Who’s lost in space now?

Back in the moment, I find myself turning to him, our faces so near that we’re almost touching. With deliberate slowness, he caresses my cheek and then traces my lower lip with a cool fingertip, his eyes alive with a burning flame. He kisses me with tenderness and confidence, and I follow his lead as he deepens the touch.

He pulls away with such abruptness that my heart doesn’t even have time to react. He leaves his forehead against mine and softly says three words that he’s said in the past.

“I love you.”

His voice carries no trace of sarcasm, desperation, arrogance, or self-hate. . . only his most vulnerable emotions and something akin to trust.

He doesn’t wait for me to respond and kisses me again, and this time, his hand finds the small of my back, and he pulls me forward so that my body is pressed against his. My hands land on his upper arms, and I stand on tiptoe to return the passion in his ministrations. Jets of desire rocket over my skin and dive deep inside until they almost consume me, and I long for something more than just kissing.

Unwilling to break our connection, my hands blindly find the hem of his T-shirt and discover the bare skin beneath. He allows me to free him of the cloth, and I manage to somehow lose my blouse before backing him toward our bed. He sits and then willingly falls back as I climb atop him. Leaving a trail of small kisses up his abdomen, I find his neck and press my lips against the hollow of his throat, lingering there so that he lets out a low moan. 

He flips me onto my back then, and he teasingly runs his fingers over my collar bone, down to my breast, and over my stomach to plunge beneath the waist of my jeans. He thumbs open the button and pulls the denim down to grasp my hip. His touch leaves me breathless, and my back arches of its own accord. He pulls me up, locking his lips with mine. All conscious thought dissipates as his bare skin finally contacts mine. I feel a flood of relief as if I’ve found my way home, and Spike trembles and lets out a low moan.

In what has to be the world’s worst timing, the phone rings. 

Spike and I both freeze. 

Without thinking, I grab for the receiver on my nightstand. Spike strokes my foot, hitting a sensitive spot as I say, “H-hello.” 

“Miss Summers?” The voice is utterly unfamiliar.

“Yes? I mean, yes, that’s me. Well, there’s my sister. She’s a ‘Miss Summers,’ too. I’m Buffy. Buffy Summers.”

Spike lifts a questioning eyebrow at me. I shrug in response. He returns his attention to massaging my foot. He’s interrupting my focus, and I am tempted to kick him.

“My name is Eva Allen. I’m one of the regional managers at the California Department of Social Services, and I’m calling to extend an apology.”

“An apology?” I sit up straight in bed, and Spike follows my lead. He can probably overhear the conversation with his vampire hearing.

“Yes. We recognize that both of the social workers we’ve sent to your home to check on your sister’s living conditions have been. . . How can I say this? Unprofessional.”

“Uh huh.” That’s putting it mildly. 

“You should know that they are both on extended leave. We take these things very seriously, and again, I’m sorry for your inconvenience.”

Wait. I know Doris was a real social worker, but. . . The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, “So, uh, Mr. Helmunde. He’s a real social worker?” Now both Spike’s eyebrows are raised at me. I mentally slap myself. So stupid. Eva isn’t saying anything now. Great. “Hello?”

“Yes, he is a real social worker. Why do you ask?” Eva sounds wary.

“Oh, n-no reason. I just, um, was worried about his son, Billy. . . if he’s on leave.” May as well throw it all out there. 

“He told you about his son? Well, see there is more evidence that he. . . Our social workers shouldn’t be sharing personal information about themselves. I’m sorry about that. That will be added to his file.”

“So, uh, you just called to apologize?” There’s got to be more to this.

“Well, no, actually. I’m also calling to inform you that I will personally be coming out to your home to inspect it and make sure it’s a fit home for Dawn.”

Crap. “When?”

“It will be an unscheduled drop in next week.” She sounds much sterner now. 

What do I say to that? “O-okay. We’ll be here.”

“All right. I will see you then. Goodbye.”

I hang up without returning the goodbye, shoulders sagging in defeat. “What are we going to do?”

Spike takes my hand, playing with my fingers, and I can tell he’s picked on enough of the conversation to understand. “We’ll make it through. Now that she’s back, we’ll have Red do a background check on Eva to make sure everything is on the up and up. And if she checks out, we’ll handle the inspection. No problem. I think we got the home set up going just fine now. We won’t have to worry about condoms and emptying bottles.”

“Or hanging up your clothes.” I smile at him. “What do you think happened to Mr. Helmunde?” 

Spike is quiet for a moment. “I think, pet, that the Watcher’s Council may have replaced him with a golem when he left for that emergency. Remember?”

“Makes sense. Guess we’ll never know for sure.” I lean back against my headboard while Spike lounges on his side next to me.

A heartbeat or two passes, and then, his eyes shine with a mischievous glint. “About what we were doing before. . .” He trails off, letting his fingers skim over my hip, and my brain happily settles back into the world of sensation. 

A loud and eager sounding voice resounds from the bottom of the stairs, “Buffy! Spike! Are you guys coming? Time to patrol!”

Damn it!

Spike actually grins at me as he pulls away, and I want nothing more than to ignore our summons and continue our rediscovered carnal urges. What if we can’t find it again? 

However, he doesn’t seem to want to go with my plan and doesn’t seem to have my anxieties. He scoops up his shirt, tugs it on, and tosses me mine. 

I mock glare at him, get dressed, tug on my boots, and check my hair out in the mirror. My mane is a mess, so I hastily run my fingers through the strands and tug them into a low bun. That’ll have to be good enough. 

“At least you’re not wearing heels,” he comments as he snags a couple of my stash of wooden stakes.

“I learned my lesson.”

Spike opens the door and motions me out, kissing my shoulder and swatting my behind as I go by. 

My heart is thumping with emotion, and although I want to address his earlier declaration, I decide to keep it light, “Tease.”

And then, louder, I call, “Coming, Dawnie!”

* * *

“Dawn! Go!” 

“Hurry up, pigeon!” 

Spike bear hugs the thrashing vampire from behind and then takes a step back so that the vamp is off balance and his arms are pinned to his sides. The dirt-covered fledgling tries to kick but can’t without falling further into Spike’s trap. 

Dawn darts forward from where she’s been watching Spike and me wear out the newbie in his funeral suit and tie. I like when vamps are buried in ties. Ties make slaying easy. Grab a tie, stake a heart.

Giving her stake a little toss to attain a better grip on the wood, she stands to one side of the still struggling vamp, brings her arm back, and thrusts the stake into her target’s chest, grunting with her effort. When he explodes in a ball of dust, she squeals and does this little move that could somehow be called her touchdown dance. . . not that I watch a lot of football.

“Dawn, watch with the shrieking,” I remind her as we move away from the scene of the staking. “We talked about this.”

Spike slings a brotherly arm around my sister in a triumphant moment, and she grins up at him. “Nice one, pet. You’re getting good at this. Buffy better watch her back. Someone might be taking over soon.” 

I smile at the easy camaraderie they’ve created since Spike started feeling mentally and physically better. I’m also happy that we almost found a different kind of camaraderie before this patrol.

“Let’s not get too confident. It’s only her second vamp.” I bend to scoop up Spike’s stake and flip it to him. He catches it easily with his free hand. “And she’s only practicing on the heart. . . not the actual fighting part.”

“You make me sound like I’m a surgeon. And third!” she reminds me. “Don’t forget my date! I staked my date on Halloween.”

Spike adds, “Oh yeah. You did, didn’t you?” He raises an eyebrow at me, and I melt a little inside. “Don’t get any ideas, pet. . . not that you haven’t threatened it before.”

I give him a little smirk. “Help me with the laundry, and you won’t have to worry about it.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Bringing up the bloody laundry every chance you get.” 

Contrary to what I originally thought when Spike moved into our house, he is amazingly good at cleaning clothes and always manages to somehow get out all the stains. . . blood, dirt, grass with random household chemicals. I like to tease him that in all those years as a vampire that he had to learn to improvise. I can’t picture Spike in a Laundromat, but he must have sometimes gone. He really is very hygienic for a vamp.

We start walking toward the cemetery exit, weaving between tombs and headstones. Spike finds my hand, and his touch is so comfortable that I marvel that I didn’t always feel that way. He gives me a single look, and I wonder that he can send a wave of desire through me just by the light in his eyes. . . the same light as earlier this evening. The nightmares and flashbacks are lessening, and the pain of his past is receding. I just hope that Dawn and I have helped with that.

Dawn walks backwards in front of us. “Now that the baddies are all dusty, are we going to see Willow and Tara?”

Willow and Tara just got back from England where Willow trained heavily with Giles and with Hanna and her coven. I’m eager to see my best friend, so I can hug her and catch up. I’ve missed her, and I know Xander has, too. Anya and Xander are still broken up, but Anya remains close with the group and is hosting a welcome home party for the two witches at the Magic Box. More than once, I’ve thanked her for helping Spike, which I can tell pleases her. 

“Only for a little while. You have school tomorrow.” 

This is why Spike and I are training Dawn. . . actually, it was Spike’s idea. We’re trying to get her ready to go to school on the hellmouth. Xander’s been giving her little nuggets of advice based on our adventures, many of which I kept from her when we were growing up. She likes to pick on me about them, especially about the time I was a rat, an experience that now has a whole new meaning since I’ve experienced flashbacks with rats in them.

The slump in Dawn’s shoulders tells me that she’s less than thrilled that summer break is over. “Oh yeah. Back to hitting the books in a non-demon fighting way.” 

“Math. I don’t miss it.”

* * *

The Magic Box bell rings the familiar sound, announcing our arrival. The warm lights illuminate the shop merchandise and the walls of books, and the faint smell of vanilla overlaying some form of incense beckons us inside. Absently chewing the end of a pencil, Anya is bent over the shop financial books on the counter by the register, her blonde curls in a short ponytail. Xander is bringing mugs of steaming-something-warm to the back table, which is piled high with large, ancient looking tomes. Tara is curled up reading in one of the chairs, earbuds in her ears and her hair a soft curtain as she thumbs a page in one of the books. 

Willow is standing to take one of the mugs from Xander. She’s the first person to look up when the bell chimes. Dawn scampers in first, and I follow. As soon as Willow sees us, she sets aside her coffee mug, emits a giddy sound of joy, and runs toward us, grinning like we haven’t seen each other in years. Well, it has been a long time. Her whole demeanor is lighter and somehow stronger. . . kind of like Spike’s. I just hope it’s real and not something that she’s hiding behind like I did. 

She tightly squeezes Dawn and then pulls back, putting one hand on either side of Dawn’s face. “It’s so good to see you, Dawnie. I have to apologize again. I’m so so sorry.” Before my sister can respond, Willow takes a step back and assesses Dawn’s arm. “How’s your arm?”

Dawn manages a smile. “Better. Arm’s still unbroken. . . see?” She holds up the previously broken arm.

“A-and you don’t need anything else like surgery or physical therapy?” The little worry groove between Willow’s eyes appears. She knows Dawn got her cast off a while ago, but she still feels so much guilt.

“No. And the slaying is helping it get stronger.” 

After getting the okay from the doctor, I’ve also been having her lift weights to strengthen her arms.

“Slaying?” Now Willow’s confused expression finds me. 

I nod. “She’s becoming a regular Scoobie.”

Taking a sip of what smells like coffee, Xander approaches. “And I’m teaching her about high school.”

“All the dirty little secrets you guys have!” Anya calls from her post. She sounds a little jealous. Then, she adds, “Don’t touch anything, Dawnie!” 

Dawn doesn’t react to Anya’s regular pronouncement anymore, and neither does anyone else. 

Willow’s concerned face doesn’t change. “What secrets?”

Swaying back on her heels with her hands in her back pockets, Dawn is eager to show off her knowledge, “That Buffy was a rat. And that you fell in love with a demon-robot guy.”

“Xander!” Willow gives her friend a glare. “You better not have told her about. . .”

Xander grins. “You singing and me being terrified of clowns when all our nightmares were coming true? You better believe it!” 

“I was more thinking about the time that you channeled your inner hyena. At least you didn’t eat the principal.”

Xander shudders. “Thank god.”

A huge smile on her face, Dawn is looking back and forth between Willow and Xander like she’s watching a tennis match. 

Tara slips her arms around Willow’s waist from behind and rests her chin on her shoulder. I knew they were back together from what Giles told me, but it’s nicer to see Willow and Tara in person with the P.D.A. “Watcha talking about?”

Willow’s hands cover Tara’s hands as she gives the blonde witch a sideways glance. “Stuff from a long long time ago.”

“Embarrassing stuff,” Xander adds. He smiles over the rim of his mug before he takes another drink. 

“How are you guys?” I keep it generic because I don’t know where Willow and I stand despite the heart to heart we had after I got back from Los Angeles. 

She and I managed a phone call or two while she was in England, but she was really distracted by her treatments and lessons. All I know is that she sounded happy to hear from me, that she and Tara were doing better, and that she was really tapping into the depth of her powers while also maintaining a healthier balance in her use of magic. 

Willow suddenly realizes something, and she moves from Tara and drags me into a hug reminiscent of the one she just gave Dawn. “I’m so good, and I’m so happy to see you.” 

I close my eyes at her familiar embrace. “We need to catch up.”

“Yes,” she agrees. 

I step back. I decide to save the social services business until later. “You and me? Espresso Pump tomorrow? I have the day off from work.”

“Sounds great. By the way, Giles sends his love.”

“How is he?” All I know is that Giles promised me that he’s coming back for Thanksgiving, and he’s staying at Casa Summers.

“Staying in England for now. He’s still helping reorganize the Council. You know Quentin stepped down, right? Well. . . more like he was asked to resign.”

“That’s surprising but of the good.” 

“Right? Giles is getting a lot of pressure to take over, but he is resisting so far, which I don’t blame him. The system’s so messed up.” Willow turns to Spike, who is hovering behind us, surveying our greetings. “So, Spike.”

“Yeah?” He sounds hesitant, and I can tell he’s still a little awkward with his new role in the group. He’s not been sure how to take Xander’s more ready acceptance of him into the inner circle since he returned from Africa.

“Heard you got a soul now.” 

He shrugs and sounds uncomfortable. “Well, yeah.”

“And that you did it for yourself. . . at least partly.” Willow’s expression is soft. “Well, I just want you to know that I know how hard that is. . . to make changes for yourself. It’s easier to do it for someone else, but I really think. . . well, what I’ve learned is that you have to make them for yourself, too.” 

He gives her a small smile as if realizing for the first time what they have in common. “True.”

Xander claps his hands and changes the conversation’s direction, “Hey! Isn’t this supposed to be a party?”

“Right!” Dawn exclaims, glancing around. “Aren’t there supposed to be streamers and balloons. . . and maybe party favors?”

“Or at least some food; I’m starved,” I add.

“Well, actually,” Tara speaks up, “We have a new demon-y thing to research. It’s why we have the pile o’books on the table.” She points to the back of the shop. 

We start to head that direction, and I can’t help but feel a happy glow inside. “Hey! Wouldn’t be a party in Sunnydale without some evil afoot!” 

“Am I allowed to help?” Dawn sounds like an enthusiastic puppy.

“Of course!” Xander motions her forward.

I casually lay my stake on a shop shelf, and Dawn and Spike follow suit.

“Hey!” Anya shouts. “Watch where you put the stakes. Can’t have customers finding those, and you don’t know how much work it takes to keep the shelves straight!” 

Xander scoops the errant stakes up. “I got them, An.”

“Thank you. At least someone understands the importance of running a tight ship. It’s all about the little details.” Anya’s eyes sparkle at him. Then, she inserts, “And there’s food in the basement fridge. Tara and I cooked up some finger sandwiches and veggie dip. And there are some alcoholic beverages, too. But not for Dawn.”

“Yum, sandwiches,” Dawn comments, ignoring the alcohol piece. “Did you make the ones with cucumbers?”

“Just for you.” Anya wrinkles her nose like she thinks Dawn is about four years old, but I can tell the affection is there.

“I got it,” Spike says, obviously using this as an excuse to get away from the amicable company. He’s through the basement door and down the steps before I can offer to come, too.

I pursue him down into the darkness, my boots quietly clumping on the stairs. 

I spy him as he opens the refrigerator and a curve of light spills across the room, and I use the luminance to find and flip on the light switch. 

As light floods the crowded space, I blink away the orange and red while my eyes adjust. “Watcha doin’?”

Spike shuts the fridge. “Truth? Just needed a bit of a break from the joyful Scoobie reunion.”

He’s used a similar line before, but this time, I’m taking it a different direction. “You know that you belong now, right?” 

He ducks his head and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel real.”

My heart aches for him, and I reach out and touch his bare forearm. “Hey. I get that.” I don’t relate exactly but can put myself in his shoes. . . something I’ve gotten better at over the last several months. Plus, being a Slayer hasn’t exactly always made me feel like I belong with the rest of humanity. “You know, we need to revisit earlier.”

Spike waits, but his eyes find mine, and I see how nervous he feels. “What about earlier?”

“What we were doing before the phone call.” I run my fingers up his arm. “What you said. . . . I didn’t get to. . .”

Spike’s gaze moves toward the shelves full of inventory, and he cuts me off, his voice heavy with emotion. “Look, Buffy, you don’t need to placate me, and I definitely don’t need any grand gestures. I’m content with what I have. . . what we have. It’s all a bloke could ask for.”

I feel tears coming up, but I force them back. I hate that he feels like he can’t want more. . . that he still thinks he has to hide his feelings behind the heat of sexual intimacy. I have to tell him that we’re way beyond that. I trace gentle circles on his shoulder. “Hey. You didn’t let me finish.” 

I pause, taking a finger and turning his head to me. I force him to make eye contact and see how naked he feels. I hope he can see that I feel that way, too.

I could make a speech, but instead, I kiss him gently and then say the words I never thought I would say but that now feel so right.

“I love you, too, Spike.” For real, I love you, and I’m not just starting to kind of fall in love with you. I’m *in* love with you. Please believe me. Okay, so my brain insists on a speech, but at least I didn’t say all that out loud.

A weight seems to dissipate from his body, and he pulls me into his arms before I can say or do anything else. Instinctively, I jump up, my legs going around his waist. He stumbles forward so that my back is pressed against the basement wall. He kisses me hard and with such fervor that I can’t catch my breath, and I don’t mind in the least. Thoughts go out the window, and I’m lost. . . lost in his lips and touch and. . . oh god. 

He pulls back first. “Can we get out of here?”

Wordlessly, I nod, my heart hammering. 

He tugs me by the hand, and we virtually fly up the stairs, party food forgotten. 

Heads shoot up as we land back on the main floor of the Magic Box. Spike holds fast to my hand but lets me do the talking.

“I *just* remembered something.”

“What?” Willow asks in confusion.

Xander wisely stays mum.

My frontal lobe desperately tries to kick in gear, and I try not to sound too eager. “Um, one more vamp that’s rising tonight. Gotta patrol.”

Scooting her chair back, Dawn stands, clapping closed the book she’s been perusing. “I’m ready.”

I shake my head, with probably way too much vigor. “No, Dawnie. Stay and research. Spike and I. . . we got it. Willow, do you mind taking Dawn home after?”

Willow is starting to get it, and she and Tara exchange knowing glances. They made the same excuse not so many months ago. “No problem.”

“And Dawn?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stay too late. I’ll be up early to take you to school in the morning. Xander is picking us up.”

“I know.” 

“See you soon, Bit.” Spike offers as I pull him toward the exit.

My sister beams at him. “Yes.” 

As the door closes behind us, I hear Anya announce, “They’re going to have sex, you know. I used to. . . have a lot of s. . . .”

Where to go, where to go. “Where should we go?” I ask Spike, pausing under the street lamp and not letting go of his hand.

He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb in a familiar gesture, and I am beyond grateful for the adoration, love, and loyalty in his eyes. “Let’s go home.”

His three simple words fill me with more happiness than I ever imagined.

* * *

“So, pet, we still have it.”

“We do, don’t we?” 

A few seconds pass as I try to catch my breath and as we lay in a heap of tangled arms and legs on our bed, sated from renewed coupling at long last. 

“Wait.” I prop myself up on one elbow and survey the vampire who has an extremely satisfied smile on his face. “What do you mean?”

His index finger traces a light line between my breasts, and I inhale sharply as the sensation sends my senses into another tail spin. “This. Honestly, I was a bit worried.”

“You? Worried?” I get him back by straddling him and trailing my own line of gentle kisses over his well-defined abdomen. 

I’m rewarded with a soft growl, a chin lift, and closed eyes. “Yeah. Wasn’t about you though.” His eyelids part again, and he runs his hand through my hair before cupping the back of my head. “Was about whether it would be the same with a soul.”

“And?” I’m definitely curious about his answer.

He flashes a grin at me. “Was better.”

“Good.” I examine his face with the light of happiness and satisfaction in his eyes. “How so?”

“Dunno. Maybe because we waited so long.” He appears thoughtful and then, “But maybe it’s because I know that you love me.”

“Without a doubt.” My long hair surrounds us as I kiss him on the nose.

“Without a doubt, what?”

“I love you.”

His lips find mine, and my skin brushes his again as he pushes up. His more than healthy enthusiasm makes me want to tell him how much I love him every chance I get. 

Then, I pull back as I put something together. “Did you. . . I mean, you. . . you never had sex when you had a soul before?”

He looks like a little kid when he shrugs, a half-chagrined, half-impish smile lifting his lips. “Nope.”

I can’t help myself and tease, “Oooo, William was a virgin!”

“Hey, it was the time period. I was saving myself. . . for someone special.” 

“No brothels or prostitutes?” I keep my questions light, but inside, I’m touched. I know what he and I have done has been far from chaste, but somehow his confession makes tonight more special.

He’s serious. “Not for me.” 

The back of my fingers find his cheek. “This was. . . is special to me.”

He places his hand over mine and then brings it around to kiss my wrist and palm. I tackle him then, and we lay there together for several minutes, my head on his chest and his arms lose about my waist. 

I muse at how far he and I have come together. Both of us have changed so much. . . been through so much. I’m amazed at where we ended up. I’m proud of him. . . proud of us for working through things together and not giving up on one another. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a relationship quite like that. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into my hair, disrupting my thoughts. 

“For what?”

“For believing in me, for helping me get through these last few months.” He gently rubs my lower back.

I nuzzle his chest in response. “Thank *you* for. . . everything.” I can’t bring myself to list all the sacrifices Spike has made for me. There are too many, and I don’t want to diminish the magnitude of what he’s done. . . what a vampire has done to change and grow and be there for me. . . for Dawn. He truly is unique, and I’m starting to appreciate just how lucky I am. We’re an unusual pair. . . a Slayer and a vampire, and while I’ve been here before with a different vampire, somehow, Spike and I make more sense. We know the ins and outs of one another better. . . we get one another. 

We contentedly cradle each other for several more minutes.

Then, Spike breaks the reverie. “You know, love. We should probably pick up the mess we made downstairs. Dawn’ll be home soon.”

I giggle. “We’re good at making messes.”

He matches my amusement with a chuckle. “We are, but at least we didn’t bring down the rafters this time.”

“Being that this is where we live, that would have been very bad.”

“Right, but anytime you want to. . . you know. . . with another abandoned building. . .” He grips my bottom.

I give a small yelp and playfully shove his arm. Then, sighing, I pull myself up and slide off the bed to put on some sort of covering. “I have to wait up for Dawn. . . and I’m still hungry.”

“All part of parenting a teenager.” He extricates himself from the sheets with more grace than me and tugs on his jeans and his crumpled T-shirt. 

“Right. I’m still figuring out this parenting thing.” I poke my head through the top of my blouse. “Somehow you did a brilliant job of it last summer.”

He heads out the door, but his words trail behind him. “I made a promise to a girl.”

Surprised at the sudden gratitude I feel for social services and Dawn and Spike’s crazy idea for us to live together, I smile and follow him downstairs.

The end.

9/27/15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this fic! I started writing it 10 years ago and then wrote chapter 16-22 in September 2015 after doing a re-watch of season six and seven during some health-related resting this summer. I fell in love with Spuffy all over again and decided to finish this fic for the 10th anniversary of Seasonal Spuffy on LJ. Thank you to everyone who is still out there that loves this pair as much as me. *hugs*
> 
> And this is the song I listened to over and over in thinking about the ending to the story. For some reason, it reminds me of Spuffy.
> 
> When life leaves you high and dry  
> I'll be at your door tonight if you need help, if you need help  
> I'll shut down the city lights,  
> I'll lie, cheat, I'll beg and bribe to make you well, to make you well  
> When enemies are at your door I'll carry you way from more  
> If you need help, if you need help  
> Your hope dangling by a string  
> Ill share in your suffering to make you well, to make you well
> 
> Give me reasons to believe,  
> That you would do the same for me
> 
> And I would do it for you, for you  
> Baby I'm not moving on  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> For you, for you  
> You would never sleep alone  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> And long after you're gone, gone, gone
> 
> When you fall like a statue  
> I'm gon' be there to catch you  
> Put you on your feet, you on your feet  
> And if your well is empty  
> Not a thing will prevent me  
> Tell me what you need, what do you need
> 
> I surrender honestly  
> You've always done the same for me
> 
> So I would do it for you, for you  
> Baby I'm not moving on  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> For you, for you  
> You would never sleep alone  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> And long after you're gone, gone, gone
> 
> You're my back bone, you're me cornerstone  
> You're my crutch when my legs stop moving  
> You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart  
> You're the pokes that I've always needed  
> Like a drum baby don't stop beating  
> Like a drum baby don't stop beating  
> Like a drum baby don't stop beating  
> Like a drum my heart never stops beating
> 
> For you, for you  
> Baby I'm not moving on  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> For you, for you  
> You would never sleep alone  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> For you, for you  
> Baby I'm not moving on  
> I love you long after you're gone  
> For you, for you  
> You would never sleep alone  
> I love you long, long after you're gone
> 
> Like a drum baby don't stop beating  
> Like a drum baby don't stop beating  
> Like a drum baby don't stop beating  
> Like a drum my heart never stops beating for you  
> And long after you're gone, gone, gone  
> I love you long after you're gone gone gone  
> \--“Gone, Gone Gone” written by Gregg Wattenberg, Derek Fuhrmann and Todd Clark


End file.
